Pull the Stars from the Sky
by roane
Summary: AU: Sherlock Holmes is a rising star in the music world, fresh out of rehab and about to embark on a US tour. His new tour manager, John Watson, is out of the army and trying to put his life back together after his injuries. NOW COMPLETE!
1. Leave This Wheel Behind Me

**_AN: _**_There are a lot of people who've helped with this: thanks to my fantastic betas emmadelosnardos and greywash, who have set me straight more times than I can count, already. Any mistakes are mine and not theirs. Also thanks to abundantlyqueer for soooo much military information and patience with my multitude of questions. And thanks to my anonymous music insider, you know who you are._

_Chapter title is from "Karma Slave", Splashdown_

* * *

**Chapter 1: Leave This Wheel Behind Me**

**_Grammy Nominee in Rehab_**

_Musician Sherlock Holmes has entered a live-in rehabilitation facility for drug abuse._

_Holmes, 23, voluntarily entered an undisclosed facility on Wednesday after a reported overdose in a hotel in London. _

_The musician, best known for combining classical sensibilities with industrial metal, was nominated in 1999 for a Grammy award for Best New Artist. Holmes had just completed several European tour dates and was scheduled to begin a tour of the US in October. There was no word on postponements or cancellations._

_"Sherlock is a smart man who has decided that a fuller life awaits him without drugs. He has chosen to seek out professional assistance and is committed to travelling a healthier road with the support of his family, friends and fans," Holmes' manager Emma Hudson said. Holmes, who lost the Grammy to fellow newcomer Lauryn Hill, made headlines with his scathing comments on his Grammy fellow nominees, particularly the Backstreet Boys._

_-ABC Entertainment News, August 3, 2000_

Sherlock Holmes was in hell. So far as he could tell, hell was boring, exhausting, and filled with a never-ending string of irritants. Nurses following him every time he left a room. Other inmates staring at him, talking to themselves. Talking about him, he thought some of the time. He knew on some level that this was nothing but garden-variety paranoia, just another symptom of the chemicals leaving his body, of equilibrium trying to reassert itself. It didn't make him any less inclined to want to strangle everyone in the room.

In hiding, in _Nebraska_. Mycroft had wanted to send him somewhere posher, but Emma said no. She wanted Sherlock out of the public eye, and for that much, at least, he was grateful. This was possibly the most humiliating experience of his life.

Psychotherapy was the worst. No. That's not true. Group therapy was the worst.

"Sherlock, why don't you tell us why you're here?" The facilitator—Steve? Scott? irrelevant—asked. Pale dishwater blond with a messiah complex. Lost a sibling—sister most likely—to heroin now wanted to save the world.

Sherlock sat back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He was well aware that it was a protective posture. "As opposed to somewhere in California?" Humour, also a protective gesture.

Steve/Scott smiled as if Sherlock had been original. "Yes, but specifically, why did you choose rehab?"

This was part of the process. He'd read enough about it. He was supposed to admit that he had a problem. He gritted his teeth. "Cocaine. Injected. I overdosed."

Steve/Scott nodded. "And that made you want to stop?"

Sherlock looked around the room before answering. It was a small group, four other people. Even after two days he could rattle off their histories: two alcoholics (one of them catatonic, honestly what did they think _he_ was going to get out of therapy?), one heroin addict (who was going to relapse the day she was discharged), and one prescription addict (he thought perhaps Oxycodone, but couldn't tell for sure). And him. "No. I've OD'd before."

"What then?"

It was so… _ordinary_ and tedious. "I was bored. I need _input_, or my brain rots. Cocaine… fixed that."

"And?"

"It stopped working." That was part of it, but not all of it. By that last night in London, he wasn't consuming cocaine anymore. It was consuming him. Instead of focusing him, the lack of it made focus impossible. His mind didn't belong to him anymore. And that was unacceptable.

After that, he stayed silent in group.

Not that it mattered much. There was still individual psychotherapy. At first he tried staying silent for the entire fifty-minute hour, but the pressure of speech was too much for him to handle. He sneered at the therapist. He analysed her. He poked and prodded and tried to find every way imaginable to get her to react to him.

She was good. He'd give her that much. No matter how incisive he was, she never rose to the bait. She turned all of his questions back on him, and then waited while he refused to answer. Before long, the verbal sparring matches were the highlight of his days.

But the boredom, dear _god,_ the boredom. Given that he'd been taking substances to escape tedium, this was, Sherlock felt, not the best setting for him. Everyone around him seemed to be waiting. Waiting for the next group, waiting to go home, waiting to score again. A few of them, waiting to die. He could read that in their faces, in their body language. He supposed he was waiting too. For whatever came next.

It got easier when they let Mycroft send him his violin. It had been his first instrument (of many), and was still the one he felt the most at home with. Not only did it give his mind something to do, but it provided an excellent annoyance to others. The alcoholic schizophrenic from group, a dark-haired man with slight build and darting eyes, would watch him intently every time he played. He wasn't bad-looking, and Sherlock was so bloody _bored_.

One day, he stopped in the middle of Bach's Partita No. 2 and smiled at him. It was the smile he reserved for anyone he especially wanted to charm. "Do you like Bach, then?"

No answer. The dark-haired man blinked.

"Or is it just the violin in general?"

A silent stare.

Sherlock's smiled wickedly, "Or is _me_?"

"Sherlock." One of the orderlies came by. "Please don't bother Rich. Come on. Why don't you come to the lounge to play? I'm sure the others would love to hear it." Rich, that was his name. He let himself be led away to the lounge, but looked back at the silent man sitting on the bench.

It was a challenge, a puzzle to be solved. Sherlock tried to engage him in conversation. Nothing. For his part, Rich usually responded only by staring. Which would have been boring, except Sherlock found himself trying to think of ways to make him talk.

* * *

John Watson was in the wrong bed. It was too soft, the position was wrong. The ceiling was wrong. He was lying an at upward angle. Railings at either side. Confused, his thoughts weren't quite in reach. It wasn't until he struggled to sit up that it all came back. Agony flared in his left shoulder, making him gasp. Everything hurt, pain focusing with sharp brittle light in his shoulder and his right knee. _Fast-roping out of the Chinook, boots hitting the early morning ground. Tin roofs flying off the shacks of the West Side Boys' camp in the chopper down-draft. Shouting. Confusion. Enemy was half-asleep and still drunk from the night before. Should be easy. _

"Shh, just relax, Captain. You're in hospital."

John let himself be pushed back to the bed by his uninjured shoulder. He tried to focus on the voice. There was a man there in nurse's scrubs, wearing a name tag that said "Bill M." He opened his mouth to speak, but a croak came out. Bill M. handed him a glass of water with a bendy straw. He took a sip—tepid, slightly bitter—and tried again. "What happened? The hostages?" His voice was raspy and almost unrecognisable to his own ears.

Bill smiled. "Mission accomplished, sir. All seven made it out safe and sound. You're a bloody hero, Captain Watson."

John relaxed back against the bed. Operation "Certain Death" (as a nickname it left a lot to be desired) hadn't gone that badly after all. Except. "How bad?"

"You'll make a full recovery, sir."

John waved his hand vaguely. "Not me. D Squadron. How bad?"

The nurse's smile softened around the edges then faded. "One KIA."

"Who?" But he already knew, could see the blood pouring out from under his hands. It was the last thing he remembered.

"Cullen, sir."

John's lips tightened, drawing down at the corners. "Wounded?"

"Three wounded, including yourself. You took the worst of it, Captain. Shrapnel to the right knee, a round through your left shoulder. It just nicked the lung, but you were lucky. You should go home in a few weeks."

Home. That should have been good news, but it wasn't. "They're sending me back to England to recuperate?"

The nurse's face told him everything he needed to know. They were sending him back to England to rot.

John closed his eyes.

* * *

"Johnny, why are you even arguing about this? You're my brother, of course you're coming home with me."

John sighed and shifted in one of the god-awful visitor's chairs. He was glad to be out of his room, but at this point, would rather have been alone in the visitor atrium. England was being England, rain pouring down the glass walls, the world turning brown as it edged into autumn. His knee ached, signs of what he could expect going forward. He was already tired of walking with a cane. He planned to get rid of it as soon as possible. "Harry, it's really very kind of you to offer, but you and I both know we'd drive each other mad."

"I didn't mean forever, you berk." She looked smart, as ever: tailored suit and strawberry blond hair in a cut that John would bet would come close to costing a week's pay for him. "Just come stay with me, until you figure out what's next." She levelled a gaze at him through stylish wire-frames. "What else are you planning to do?"

He scrubbed his hands over his scalp, grimacing. "I'll have my pension to start. I've got a bit put aside. I can find something."

"John." Her voice was soft, and he didn't want to look at her. He knew he'd see pity in her eyes, and he'd already seen more than his fair share of that over the past few weeks. "It's all right, you know. I know this isn't what you planned, isn't what you wanted."

"No, shut up, shut up." John covered his face with his hands for a moment. "I didn't fucking _die_ out there. I could have. I didn't."

"You don't have any idea, do you? What you did—"

John sat very still, just breathing. "Harry. Shut the fuck up and listen." John lowered his hands and turned to look at her. "I'm only saying this once. A man died because I couldn't keep my shit together long enough to keep him alive. I came back. He didn't. And don't fucking feel sorry for me, either. I'm _here_. I'm whole." He paused. "I need to do something with that. Something worthwhile. I… I just don't know what."

She took his hand and he successfully fought the urge to pull away. "So come home with me until you figure it out. I know you told MOD you wanted some time. Take it. I've got the guest room. Please."

John sighed. "I'm a horrible houseguest."

"So?"

"I'll leave stubble in your sink."

Harry grinned. "Clara already did that."

"Wait, she. What?"

"Shaving her legs. In the sink."

John swallowed, suddenly struck with the mental image of long legs arched over ceramic tile and this was really not the way he ought to be thinking about his sister's ex-partner. It only got worse when Harry laughed. "I knew it. I knew you fancied her."

"Shut up. I've been cooped up in here for four weeks. Have some fucking mercy, will you?" John shakes his head once, sharply, to dislodge the image.

"So it's settled then. You're coming to stay with me."

"Yes, fine," he relented. "But only for a little while. Not long enough to make me want to kill you." Harry squeezed his hand, which was as demonstrative as she ever got.

"With your training? Don't think I won't take that threat seriously."

They grinned at each other, and for a few minutes, John thought he could see a glimpse of a future again.

* * *

His therapist called it a 'family meeting'. Sherlock called it a nightmare. Mycroft sat in the therapist's office across from him in all his three-piece suited, buttoned-up glory. Barely thirty and he dressed like someone's grandfather. The corners of his mouth were pulled sharply down, and Sherlock could read resentment in every angle of his face and shoulders.

"I really don't see why this is necessary," Sherlock said as soon as the doctor sat down.

Dr Schultz sat her file (Sherlock's file) on the table next to her and smiled. "We've been through this, Sherlock. One of the most important factors in your success after you leave us is the level of support you receive from your family and friends." She glanced at Mycroft, including him in her comments. "Your brother wants to be a part of your recovery. It's important that you try to let him."

"Oh please. He doesn't care about my 'recovery'. He just wants the problem to go away. The problem, of course, being me."

"Sherlock." God, that oily-silky voice. Sherlock hated it. So _reasonable_. So _calm._ "We worry about you. Mummy has been just sick since you've been here."

Sherlock was on the verge of saying something rude when Dr Schultz said, "Sherlock, why don't you tell Mycroft what you told me, about why you were using?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "So much for doctor-patient confidentiality."

"Sherlock, you're behaving like a child." Aha, there was the Mycroft he'd been expecting. "For god's sake. We just want you to get better."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You just want this to stay out of the papers. What's the matter, Mycroft? Worried that your disreputable little brother will cost you a security clearance?"

Mycroft looked at Dr Schultz with an expression that clearly read 'You see what we're dealing with here.' Rather than joining him, Dr Schultz murmured, "Sherlock, why don't you tell your brother what you need from him?"

"Nothing. He can rule the world without my help." Sherlock gave Mycroft a flash of teeth more than a smile. "And I can fuck my way through it without his."

"Honestly, Sherlock. This, again? None of us care whom you take to your bed. We just want you to be a little _discreet_ about it—"

"Closeted, you mean."

Mycroft had his prim face back on. "That's an ugly little word, but—"

Dr Schultz interrupted. "Mycroft. Let Sherlock finish. Sherlock, you feel that your family disapproves of your sexual orientation?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course they do. And my career choice."

"And was that why you started using drugs?"

He glared at her. "You know it wasn't. Cocaine helped me think, it helped me create." Mycroft tched and Sherlock turned the glare on him. They bored holes into one another for a silent moment, then Sherlock continued, "And then it didn't anymore. So I decided to stop."

"And you don't think your family can do anything to help you once you leave here?" Dr Schultz asked.

Keeping his eyes on Mycroft, Sherlock said, "They can stay the hell out of my way."

"Well," Mycroft said, rising to his feet. "Dr Schultz, thank you for inviting me. I'm sorry if this meeting wasn't as helpful as you'd hoped." Dr Schultz stood as well. Sherlock stayed where he was.

"I'm sure Sherlock will be in touch, Mr Holmes."

"Yes." The look he gave Sherlock clearly said 'I doubt it.' "Sherlock, please take care of yourself. Mummy _does_ worry so." Sherlock gave him a thin smile as he watched Mycroft leave.

* * *

_Smell of cordite and chlorophyll and copper-blood. Crimson sunrise/olive jungle. Radio-gunfire-crackle. Man down, man down. Christ, it's Cullen. Crouch. Stay with me, stay with me. Face pale and still already. Goddamn it. Strip armour. Find pressure point. Stop bleeding. _

_Rounds whining off trees, flecks of bark cutting into his face. Have to move. Stagger-carry. Out of the line of fire. Stumble. Leg numb. What?_

_Blood everywhere. Bleeding too much, bleeding out. John struggles to a crouching position, rewarded by a scream in his right knee. Leans on his left knee, puts all his weight on the chest wound in front of him._

_Nothing else. Explosion of pain. Black._

_Swim up from blackness. "Captain? Stay with me. Come on, you bastard. Look at me." _

_More distant, urgent. "Where's the fucking _chopper_?"_

_Pain everywhere._

John jerked awake out of broken sleep, the motion making him set his teeth against the pain in his knee. It was better than it had been, and with another week or two of PT he expected the pain would go completely. It doesn't matter, of course. A simple piece of shrapnel had already cost him everything he'd been working for, ten years of his life now rendered useless. He swung his legs around the edge of his narrow bed, looking at the time. Not like it mattered. Not like he had anywhere he had to be.

He scrubbed at his face, feeling three days' worth of stubble. 4:30 am. Too soon to get up. If he showered now, he'd wake up Harry. He lay back down on his sister's guest room bed with one arm across his forehead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the tattoo on his upper arm, Excalibur wreathed in flames, with the words "Who Dares Wins" inked underneath. He turned his face away.

He couldn't stay with Harry for long. He needed to get his feet under him, find a job, go to school, something. Twenty-eight years old and the one career he'd wanted more than anything was over.

But he was alive. If he had just been a little faster, if the sniper had just been a little slower to pull the trigger, Cullen might still be alive. Cullen, who had a wife and two kids out there somewhere, a _reason_ to leave the service, a reason to come home.

_Fuck._ John pushed himself up off the bed with more force than strictly necessary. He pulled the nearest pair of trousers and t-shirt on. It was still dark outside, but he couldn't bear to lie there anymore. It would do his knee good to go for a walk anyway.

And if he was really lucky, someone might try to mug him. Punching something sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

* * *

As soon as he got the chance, Sherlock finagled his way into a phone call to the one person he thought could help. "Greg. You have no idea how incredibly dull it is here."

"Hello to you too, sunshine. How're you feeling?"

"Bored. I am so tired of talking about drugs I never want to look at a gram of anything ever again."

Greg laughed. "Well, I suppose that's one way to get you to quit."

"I'm serious, Greg. Please tell me things are looking good for the tour." Sherlock settled into one of the awful plastic chairs and leaned against the wall.

"About that…" Greg paused for a little too long. "Sherlock, management wants me out."

"What? Why?" He sat up. His voice carried a little too far, earning him a glance from the nurses' station. "Absolutely unacceptable. You're managing, or I'm not going."

"Well, look at it from their perspective, eh? You overdosed on my watch, Sherlock."

"But that wasn't your fault, you're not my bloody babysitter."

Greg laughed, the way people laugh at things that aren't funny. "That's exactly what I was and you know it."

Sherlock stood and paced a few steps, running his hand through his hair. "I _need_ you. You're the best engineer I've ever had."

"And the shittiest tour manager," Greg said.

"Call management. I'm cancelling the tour if you're not on it."

"Oh for Christ's sake, Sherlock. Do you really think you have much leverage right about now? They're threatening to pull the plug anyway. Did you forget where you are?"

"Yes, yes, I'm in rehab. But not for much longer." Sherlock stopped pacing, trying to think. Thinking was so much more difficult in this place, like pushing through muck. His eyes went wide as he thought of a solution. "Tell them to hold back my pay. All of it. Surety for me staying clean while we're in the States. I won't fight them, _if_ you're on the tour."

Greg sighed. Sherlock could almost hear him shaking his head. "You're mad. Absolutely bloody mad."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "They'll do it, you know they will. They're probably already talking about it."

"I'll see what I can do. There's no way in hell they'll let me manage the tour though."

"I don't give a damn about that," Sherlock said. "Let them send along whatever stooge they can come up with. I can work with it."

"Sherlock, if this works, you gotta hold up your end of the bargain. One more screw up and yours isn't the only career that could go bust."

He half-listened, realising that he had an audience in Rich. He smiled, as much to the audience as to the man on the other end of the phone. "I can do this, Greg. If nothing else, I'll do it to take the piss out of Mycroft." His smile widened, and to his surprise, Rich smiled back.

* * *

Two days later, Harry came home with a smile on her face and a bag of Chinese takeaway. John looked up from the job listings. "What happened to you?"

Harry set the food down on the kitchen counter and started pulling out cartons and plastic bowls."Come lay the table," she said. "We'll eat first. Then we'll talk."

Suspicions raised, John went into the kitchen to do as he was asked. He pulled down plates from the cabinet and brought them to the table. "That sounds… like trouble."

"It's not," Harry said, taking a plate and dishing out a pile of noodles and vegetables. "It's brilliant. I can't believe I didn't think of it before."

"Oh Christ," John said, snagging a bottle of mineral water out of the fridge—no booze in the house, not anymore. "You're not trying to set me up again, are you?"

For some reason, that made Harry's grin twitch. "No. Not like you're thinking, anyway." She didn't say anything at first, paying attention to dumplings and rice for a few minutes. Finally she took a deep breath and said, "I may have a job for you. And you're perfect for it."

John raised his eyebrows around a mouthful of noodles. "You work at a music management company. I don't know a damn thing about music. What are you going to have me do, haul boxes around? File paperwork?"

"Better. Eat first." Then she refused to say another word about it until they'd finished dinner and done the washing up. She steered him back into the living room and sat him down on the couch.

He eyed her warily. The look in her eye was startlingly close to the time when he was twelve and she was ten, and she suggested they fill their water guns with holy water from the church so they could go vampire hunting. "Harry… what are you plotting?"

Harry settled cross-legged on the large divan and it did nothing to dispel the image of her as a mischievous ten year-old. "How much do you know about Sherlock Holmes?"

John frowned. The name was familiar, vaguely. With a name like that, of course he'd remember it. "Musician, yeah? One of yours?" Harry nodded. He thought again for a moment. "In trouble of some sort? That's all I've got, really."

"Not bad for someone who's been out of the country for the past year," Harry said. "He is, all of those things. Rising star, could be huge if he could get his shit together. He's about to go on a tour of America and he's missing a tour manager."

"You're joking, right?"

"John, you're perfect for it. All you have to do is keep shit together. Keep people on schedule and in line, make arrangements. It's a lot of logistics, but you could do it."

"Harry…" He shook his head.

She drew a deep breath. "John. I need you to do this for me. Not just because we need somebody we can trust—because god knows we do—but because I need you to do it. You need to get out of the country for a while. Get away from England." He started to protest, and she cut him off with a hand-wave. "I mean it. You need out of here. It's just for a few months, and when you come back, you'll have an even bigger nest egg and some interesting stories to tell."

"Ten years in the army, I have my fill of interesting stories," he muttered.

"Oh, but not like this." She grinned, and the devil-girl was back. "This is rock and roll, John. Come on. You know you want a chance to boss people around again."

He snorted. "I'm not saying yes. But tell me about it."

"Right." She swung her legs down and leaned forward, all but rubbing her hands together. "Travel around the United States, part of it in a van, part on a plane. Hang out with a group of close-knit but dysfunctional individuals and get to know them far too well. Deal with the money, keep everyone on schedule. Just keep things going."

John pulled a face. "It sounds like our last family holiday as kids."

"But _better_," she said.

"All right, what's the catch?"

"You're right about Sherlock being in trouble. He's just out of rehab. We—well, we hope it took, for lack of a better word, but we're not sure."

John rubbed his forehead. "You want me to babysit a junkie."

"Maybe a little."

"Harry—"

"It's not like you haven't done it before." Her voice was soft enough that he looked up at her.

"That was different."

"Yeah, I know," she said with a faint grin. "Then you had to waste your entire leave getting me sober. This time it'll be your job. John… he can be difficult. I won't lie." He gestured for her to continue. "The Holmes family, they're pretty posh. Sherlock can be very public school at times, although he pretends not to be. And he's a bit spoilt."

"This just sounds better and better." John leaned back against the couch cushions. "Anything else you need to spring on me?"

"Well… he's gay."

John's brow creased. "So? So's half your office."

Harry found the edges of the couch cushions very interesting all of a sudden. "And... he's rather aggressive about it. We've lost some good people from this tour because they couldn't cope."

"Right, so you're saying he'll hit on me."

"Likely. And John, I'm sure I don't need to tell you..."

"Harry." He nudged her with his foot. "Are you seriously about to tell me that sleeping with a spoilt junkie in my charge is a bad idea? Because I had rather tumbled to that already."

"He can be very... charismatic."

"And I'm guessing petulant and arrogant and rude," John said. "Not in my top ten list of traits I look for in a shag."

"No," Harry said with a twist of her mouth, "but drop-dead gorgeous and needy are. Just be careful, okay?"

"I'm a big boy, Harry. I can keep my hormones in check."

* * *

They met in Mike Stamford's office. John would have rather have met in Harry's, but apparently more neutral ground was required. So they met in the office of Harry's boss. For a wonder, Sherlock was seated the office when John arrived. He stood, and seemed to be going up, up, up, Jesus he was tall. Then he turned around. John had seen photographs of Sherlock Holmes before, and had read some interviews in hopes of getting to know his new responsibility. It didn't prepare him for this. He felt like someone had given him a good slam to the solar plexus. Pictures showed the pretty-boy cheekbones, glossy black hair and fair skin. They didn't show the shifting grey-green-blue of his eyes, or the expressiveness of his mouth—currently drawn into what could only be called a pout.

_Oh fuck, Harry. I am in _trouble.

"Sherlock," said Mike, "this is Captain John Watson, your new tour manager. John, Sherlock. Captain Watson's just come home from the service." They reached out, clasped hands, and John felt a prickle up his spine. _Shit._

John expected his new charge to come in with a full entourage. But he didn't, just his former tour manager, Greg Lestrade. John took a liking to him immediately, which surprised him, since he was effectively taking the man's job.

"Greg is going to stay on as front-of-house engineer," explained Mike. "He pulled double-duty for a while, but that's really too much to expect of anyone, I think."

Greg grimaced, raising a question in John's mind. Some history there, then. Clearly it wasn't too bad, as he was still with the tour.

"A captain," Sherlock said. "Is military involvement really necessary? Are you expecting to lead a charge, Captain Watson?"

"Ahhh, no," John said. He tried on a smile and found that it almost fit.

"Have a lot of experience with the music business then?" Sherlock's eyes made him feel as if the man were crawling around inside his skull.

"Captain Watson comes highly recommended." Mike stepped in smoothly. "I think you'll find he's a man of many talents."

"Is he." John recognised appraisal in Sherlock's eyes, and mentally kicked himself for wondering how he was measuring up. "Yes, I'm sure he is."

Mike cleared his throat. "Gents, we've got some details to work out. Shall we?" He gestured at the chairs around the desk. The four men settled in and got to work.


	2. Lay My Hands on Heaven

_Chapter title is from "The Only Time", Nine Inch Nails_

* * *

**Chapter 2: Lay My Hands on Heaven**

"No, no, no. Bloody hell, Anderson. At least try to act like you're loading equipment worth thousands of pounds, eh?" John pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and took a breath. In theory, he knew how this was supposed to work. Granted, his notion of touring and group travel generally involved more helicopters and heavy artillery than vans and planes and costumes, but the principle was the same: get everyone from point A to point B, and keep them fed and relatively rested, ready to do their jobs. The main difference was that the soldiers under his command in the SAS were trained and expected to follow orders and keep things moving in a straight line. This was... not that. The phrase 'herding cats' kept coming to mind.

It was seven AM and the flight out of—where were they, Boston?—was at ten. He stepped up to grab the other end of the synthesiser case and slide it into back of the van. He could see Sally wrestling with boxes of t-shirts, CDs, posters, and other bits and bobs of merchandise. Greg would be with her. He was a good man. And so far he seemed to be the only other one in the lot with any common sense.

There was an unmistakable bite of autumn in the air, enough so that John wished he had something more substantial than a t-shirt under his jacket. For some reason he'd thought the States were warmer than London, but clearly he was wrong, at least today. The sight of Molly returning laden with paper coffee cups and bags of what he hoped was something edible was welcome.

He took coffee and a muffin from Molly and ran over the day's schedule in his head. New York was the next stop. After that... well, shit. He had it written it down somewhere.

Greg walked over to him, drinking the same awful coffee John was holding. "Do you want to wake His Highness, or should I? When I left the room he was still dead to the world."

John looked at his watch and sighed. "I should. I need to clear up a few details about tonight's show. You all right finishing up here?"

"I'll make sure nobody breaks anything," Greg said.

"Give me your room key, just in case I have to go in and get him," John said.

John snagged another cup from Molly and a few of the pastries. He headed back into the hotel. It was rather terrible, really: all gleaming wood and modern and utterly impersonal. He passed through the lobby and up the stairs until he reached Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock? We're about loaded up. Are you awake?" A mutter from behind the door. "Up and at 'em, sunshine. If you want a shower, you'd better do it now."

"Go away." Sherlock's voice was rough and clouded with sleep.

"Come on. I've got coffee," John said, sing-songing the last word.

"Fuck you." A pause. "_Captain._"

"Ah-ah. That's no way to talk to someone who's bringing you caffeine and sugar. Don't make me come in there after you."

"I haven't a stitch on." There was a shift in the tone of Sherlock's voice. He sounded more awake, and amused.

"You—oh for fuck's sake." John opened the door, expecting the worst. What he got was a glimpse of wild black hair barely visible under a white sheet, one arm wrapped around a pillow. He took the extra coffee over and set it down on the nightstand. Before John could draw his hand back, Sherlock's fingers closed around it and he pressed a kiss into the centre of John's palm. John wouldn't swear to it—although swearing certainly seemed called for at the moment—but he thought he felt a faint brush of tongue before Sherlock let his hand go. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and his cheeks felt hot. Keeping his voice steady, he said, "Right. So you're a fan of bad coffee. Something to keep in mind."

Sherlock's chuckle was low and blurred and half-muffled by the pillow. John swallowed, then said, "Get dressed. I'll wait outside. We need to talk about the set up for tonight." He slipped out and closed the door behind him, realising too late that he'd left his coffee on the dresser.

Greg was shoving the last of the equipment into the van. He looked at John and raised an eyebrow. "You all right, mate? You look... flushed." _Damn it_.

"I'm fine."

Straightening up and stretching his back, Greg said, "Winding you up, is he?"

John sucked in air through is teeth. "That obvious?"

"Only for somebody that knows him. Which is, you know, all of us." He grinned. "It'll pass."

"Messing about with the new guy, yeah?" John couldn't explain the slight dip in his belly at Greg's certainty that this was temporary.

Greg caught him around the neck in a near-headlock. "You're just lucky _I_ decided I liked you, mate. I would've made your life hell." John shoved him away and laughed.

* * *

Sherlock took up an entire row in the van, curled up and watching the scenery pass by. The flight from Boston had been dull, but at least short. John and Greg in front of him talking about something dull: logistics, making plans. The others filled out the back rows, laughing and talking.

By all rights, this forced inactivity, this confinement to a small space with other people, should have been driving him mad with boredom. It certainly had in the past. Sherlock stopped to consider, steepling his long fingers against his lips. Obvious. The last time he'd spent this much time travelling, he'd been high half the time, coming down the other half. Now he was just drowsy—he was sleeping much more now than before, which he found profoundly irritating.

He turned his attention to the two men sitting in front of him. They were facing each other deep in conversation, ignoring him. Greg was a known quantity, familiar right down to his toes. He was background information now, always there. Sherlock studied John's profile. Greg had said something about the circumstances of John's service discharge, but Sherlock hadn't been paying attention. An injury, most likely. He decided to figure it out for himself as a way to pass the time. There was restlessness in the set of John's shoulders. Ah, the inactivity _was_ bothering someone then.

"When we get to DC on Tuesday, just know that Marshall is going to try and skim as much as he can off the take. The bastard always does," Greg said. "And for the love of Christ, don't let him give you a check. Cash only."

"Bad?" asked John. His short, blunt fingers pried at the upholstery on the back of the seat. There was a slight tremor there in his left hand; Sherlock wondered if John even realised it.

"Rubber wishes it could bounce that high," Greg said. "We'd get paid eventually, but best just to avoid the annoyance."

"Right. Anything else I should know about?"

"Yeah." Greg raised his voice just enough to make it clear that he wasn't speaking to just John. "Watch out for that bastard behind us. When he's got that look on his face, it means he's about to cause trouble."

Sherlock pulled his attention away from John to Greg. "What look? This is my face."

"Exactly," Greg said, and John laughed.

"Honestly. I was just trying to learn something about Captain Watson."

"John, please," John said, turning to look at Sherlock. "What would you like to know?"

"There's nothing you can tell me that I don't already know," Sherlock said. "Nothing important, anyway."

"Oh Christ," said Greg, rubbing his face. "Sherlock—"

John glanced at Greg, then turned his eyes back to Sherlock. John's eyes were flint-grey and looked infinitely patient, belying the restlessness in his muscle tone. There was the faintest hint of a smile, or maybe a suggestion of bared teeth. A challenge, then. "All right. What do you know?"

Sherlock heard the chatter from the back of the van quiet, as the others heard what was happening. A larger audience then. He smiled, turning to face his opponent, pulling his feet off the bench and crossing long legs. "Captain John H. Watson. I'd give that your age at... twenty-eight? Given your age and rank, you likely went in to the Army as an enlisted man as soon as you were old enough. No university for you. But you're not entirely stupid, so I'd guess money was a factor."

John looked surprised and looked over at Greg, who raised his hands. "I didn't tell him anything," Greg said. "He just... does this."

Sherlock continued, as though John had just confirmed his conclusion. "Needed to find a way to support yourself, then. You did well enough for yourself in the Army. But something happened, just a few months ago. How badly wounded was your left shoulder, Captain? I would say rather badly, if you were discharged for it. Your left hand shakes when you aren't paying attention to it. Not keeping up with your physical therapy, tch." Sherlock sped up as he got closer to the end. "You don't identify as homosexual or bisexual, but you definitely find men attractive, and have most likely moved beyond any schoolboy stage of experimentation. Likely a partner or two in the Army." He smiled as he reached the _coup de grace_. "And you're so attracted to me you can't think straight."

Sherlock heard the slight intake of breath from someone behind him, likely Molly. John's face remained perfectly neutral, giving nothing away. "And what," said John, "aside from your colossal ego, gives you that impression?"

"This morning, when you woke me. I caressed your hand and you got so flustered you practically bolted from the room. You left behind your coffee."

Sherlock watched as a faint shade of pink crept across John's ears and down across his neck.

"It was terrible coffee," John said, eyes flickering downward once in what Sherlock read as an admission of defeat. He sat back against the seat, still smiling. Game, set, match to Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

An hour after arriving at the Beacon, John realised he should have taken a nap on the plane. From the moment his feet hit the pavement in New York, he was running. Carrying equipment, helping set up equipment, making sure the theatre had what they needed... he had more than one occasion to be grateful for the rather startlingly meticulous lists that Greg had given him the first day.

The first major problem was with merchandising set up. Sally tracked him down as he was arguing with the theatre manager. He saw her standing off to the side and gestured impatiently at the manager. "Look, Matt. I'll be right back. Check the rider, please. You can't just stick a few bottles of beer and a bag of pretzels in the green room and think you're good." He turned to Sally and closed the distance between them.

"John, there's not enough space. Nowhere near." Sally had her arms folded in front of her and gave Matt a glare as he walked past. She turned her hostile glance back to John.

"Show me," John said. He followed her out to the lobby, a soaring two-story Neo-Grecian nightmare. Pillars and marble and huge murals and a vast expanse of floor, how on earth was there not enough room? Then he saw what Sally meant. The merch boxes had been tucked away nearly behind one of the sets of stairs ascending to the mezzanine level. One lone folding table stood near it.

"You didn't even discuss this with them, did you?" Sally asked.

"No. I'm sorry. I'll get it sorted." He ran a hand over his scalp.

"I'm running out of time here, John."

"I know. Just—wait. A minute, okay?" He took off at a jog towards the offices. Right. He needed to get the merch and the food situations sorted, make sure everything was ready for the soundcheck—including Sherlock, who was far as John knew was taking a lovely pre-show nap in the green room, lucky sod. He checked his watch. Four PM, god.

He knocked on the office door, then stepped in to confront Matt once again. "Okay, we're going to need at least one more table for merch. And if it wouldn't be too much trouble, can we actually set them up where people will see them?" He mentally spat on his hands and waded back into battle.

* * *

The man standing behind the ridiculously complicated set up of synthesisers, guitar, drum machines, and computers was relaxed, even joking with the house engineer on monitors and Greg out in the sound booth as they worked to get the levels right. This was the third time he'd seen it, but each time John was surprised again at the difference between off-stage Sherlock and onstage Sherlock. Damned if he wasn't capable of being _charming_ when he felt like it.

Of course, that would change once the audience was present, the joking would stop and he would cultivate that air of ethereal—if slightly dangerous and debauched—aristocracy that was his stage persona. Still: the relaxation would remain. It occurred to John that Sherlock off-stage was the one putting on an act.

John heard laughter from the stage and looked out to see Sherlock picking up the guitar—not something he used often, but there were one or two numbers.

"She's going to kill you." Greg's voice came over the PA.

Sherlock grinned, rare and mischievous. He fiddled with the tuning, then started playing a blues riff John would know anywhere, but never would have expected to hear from Sherlock. He vamped it a few bars, then came in with the lyrics, "_Mustang Sally, guess you better slow that Mustang down..._" John folded his arms and leaned against the side of the proscenium arch with a smile. For a posh kid from Sussex, he wasn't bad. He'd never give Wilson Pickett a run for his money, but John was impressed. It only got better when one of the doors to the lobby opened and John realised who the 'she' in question was.

Sally didn't bother entering the theatre all the way, just stuck her upper body through the door long enough to give the stage a two-fingered salute. Sherlock's response was to dirty up the song even more, complete with a few unmistakable groans that had John somewhere between laughing and aroused. He made a mental note to ask Greg later what the joke was.

* * *

John's only break came when the concert actually started. Soundcheck had run long—so far they all had—and the openers were pissed, but that, fortunately, was not one of John's problems. Once Sherlock was onstage, the bulk of John's work was done, unless something blew up. He stopped in the green room and bolted down a sandwich, then grabbed a second one and headed for the sound booth. He chewed the entire way there, not caring about manners—he'd last eaten roughly twelve hours prior, at a guess. By the time he got to the booth, his hands were empty. He let himself in and collapsed onto a stool.

Greg gave him a nod then looked back to the board. The view of the stage from the booth wasn't bad at all. It was a little ridiculous, but not bad. The stage had the requisite swirls of fog, Sherlock in the middle surrounded by electronics. John wondered if Sherlock had any idea how much of his career he owed to Molly Hooper. Molly's lighting was something of a wonder. She had a knack for casting Sherlock's angular features in just the right balance of light and shadow, making him look either angelic or demonic as the music required.

John still wasn't sure he enjoyed that music; at first it had sounded like nothing but thumping bass with occasional orchestra samples and growled lyrics. He had to admit, though: it was impressive, all that sound coming from the mind and hands of one man. And the audience was eating it up.

Things quieted, as Sherlock took up the guitar for one of the more low-key songs. John slid the stool back against the back wall of the booth and listened. The voice that washed over him was low and sweetly roughened. It was... soothing. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, then fell into a light doze.

* * *

The green room was crowded and noisy with the better part of the guest list looking to join in the after-show party, ramping up for a meandering trip from green room to assorted hotel rooms. John was just happy to have got through the show. New York had, so far, been a colossal pain in his arse. Matt had settled up, and the money was tucked away safely in John's jacket. He leaned against the wall nearest the lighted mirror and shifted to ease the bite of the jacket against his aching shoulder.

The party was just getting underway. John could smell the tang of cannabis, but there was no haze over the room yet, and it seemed like everyone was holding a drink. He planned to nurse his single beer for as long as he could, feeling a little bit like a babysitter. Across the room he saw Greg chatting up two girls dressed in various permutations of "skimpy" and "black". He'd had a few curious eyes cast his way as well, but the only thing he really wanted to do in a bed right now was sleep.

Molly and Sally were tossing popcorn at Anderson, who was trying his best to impress the house engineer, who'd been working monitors throughout the show. She looked like she could break Anderson with one arm, and also looked unimpressed. Every so often, Molly would look over towards Sherlock. Molly's crush on Sherlock was one of those things everybody knew about, but nobody talked about. John had discovered there were a lot of open secrets. He supposed when you spent six weeks with the same five people, the only concessions to privacy were that you didn't talk about what you knew. It hadn't been so different in the barracks.

Sherlock, still sweat-drenched from three hours on stage, was sulking on the couch, clutching a towel around his shoulders. A rep from some small indie label was sitting next to him trying to start a conversation. John almost felt sorry for him. Sherlock was barely even feigning interest in the man. It looked like the only beverage he had in front of him was mineral water, although he'd been practically chain-smoking cigarettes since coming backstage.

As soon as Sherlock stepped off the stage, John had seen his shoulders tighten as if anticipating the fall of a blow. He hadn't bothered to change out of his stage clothes, although leather pants _that_ tight had to be uncomfortable. Sherlock had sweated away most of the stage makeup, but there was still eyeliner smudged around his eyes.

Sherlock stood up, cutting off the label rep mid-sentence. He stepped up and over the battered coffee table and said, "Get out." His voice cut across the party noise, which dulled in response. The partiers, some dozen in all, looked at him for a moment. "I said get out." They started to shuffle out with a few mutters. To judge by Sally's expression, this had happened before. John shrugged up from the wall to follow them. "Not you, Captain," said Sherlock. "Someone has to keep an eye on me, right?"

"Right," said John, and settled back against the wall with a swig of his beer. He spotted Greg, who was on his way out. He gave John a sympathetic shrug. _Christ, what now?_

He was still stinging from Sherlock's analysis in the van. He hadn't been wrong. About any of it. It chafed at John, to have been so easily read. John braced himself for more of the same now.

Once the room was empty, Sherlock used the towel to start drying off his hair, tousling it into wild waves. "So. My brother hired you to—what, make sure I stay on the straight and narrow?"

"Actually," John said, moving to the now-empty couch, "your management hired me to keep the money coming in and make sure you get to the shows on time. I have no idea who your brother is. As far as straight and narrow—that's not my problem. As long as you're not fucking off during shows, I don't care what you do."

"Good," said Sherlock, meeting John's eyes in the mirror. "Because I don't do 'straight'." He said the word with a grimace and a crisp bite to the last 't'.

"I'd rather got that impression, yes," John said, voice as mild as an April morning.

"What about you?"

John rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and cupping the beer bottle between both hands. "Me? I thought you already had me all figured out."

"But was I right?"

"I don't see where that's any of your business." John gave him a smile, all teeth.

Sherlock turned around from the mirror and walked closer in lazy, sprawling steps. He plucked the beer bottle out of John's hands with long elegant fingers and drank from it, the swallow shivering the white line of his throat. He sat it back in John's hands. "Could make it my business," he said.

And there was the challenge John was expecting. "You really couldn't," he said, leaning back against the couch as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"That sure, are you?" John wasn't surprised when Sherlock straddled his knees as he spoke. "Because you seemed interested this morning."

"Do you do this to everyone, or am I a special case?" John had a suspicion that "breathing" equated to "seemed interested" in Sherlock's mind. He held on to his composure and simply looked up at Sherlock. He was doing well until Sherlock settled into his lap with a discreet little roll of his hips that left no room for doubt where Sherlock thought this was headed. Which was why John reacted the way he did. "Sherlock, get off."

He leaned in, and the scent of sweat and leather and cigarette smoke mingled with the smell of spilt beer, trickling onto the couch from John's forgotten bottle. The combination shouldn't have been arousing, but it was. Then there was that low chuckle close to John's ear. "I was trying."

John replied through gritted teeth. "Get off my lap."

Sherlock drew back and gave him a second's-worth of a pout, followed by a slow, molasses-dark smile. "Make me."

It was a simple thing really, to catch one slender wrist in his left hand and to press it up and behind Sherlock's back, just so. Just enough for leverage. Sherlock had to stand or be hurt. John followed Sherlock to his feet, keeping the wrist pinned behind him, which also pinned their bodies together. Sherlock squirmed. John's eyes were about level with Sherlock's chin, but height had long since ceased to be a disadvantage for him. "I don't know what game you think you're playing," John said. "I am not here to play. This is my fucking _job_, and I intend to do it."

Sherlock's pupils were blown wide, and his breath was a little unsteady as he nodded. John had tripped a trigger of some sort. A small part of his brain filed that away for later consideration. He let go of Sherlock's wrist, and he—impossible brat that he was—immediately grabbed John around the waist and caught him off-guard in a fierce, open-mouthed kiss.

John gave himself a second to enjoy it, then reached up and pressed his hands around the tops of Sherlock's shoulders and pushed, firm and deliberate, separating the two of them. "Not," he said, "happening." His hands slid down and paused on the thin, damp t-shirt covering Sherlock's narrow chest and he applied a bit more pressure, creating even more distance.

There was a tap at the door and Greg poked his head in. "I hate to interrupt." John drew his hands back, and took a backwards step. "But they're throwing us out in fifteen."

That made it nearly two AM. Christ, John was tired. "Ta, Greg," John said, and he tossed a fresh towel at Sherlock, heading for the door. "Back to the hotel in ten minutes, yeah?"

He ignored the rude gesture that followed him out into the hallway.

* * *

Greg was standing at the back exit, cigarette in one hand and a grin on his face. "You did well. The last full-time tour manager we had was naked and screaming within ten minutes."

John blinked as the realisation set in. "You're kidding. Jesus."

Greg blew out smoke with a laugh. "Which wouldn't have been so bad—these things happen, yeah? But then she tried to pretend it hadn't, and Sherlock took every available opportunity to gloat... yeah, she didn't stick with the tour for long after that. So I got to pull double duty for a while."

"Wait. She? But he's-"

"Don't let him fool you." He ground out the cigarette. "He's an equal opportunity bastard."

"Is that what the thing with Sally was about?" John leaned against the wall and bent his right knee experimentally, wincing at the stretch.

"During soundcheck? God, no," Greg said. "That story's so old it's practically myth by now."

John waited. When Greg didn't continue, "Yes, and? Come on."

Greg looked around to see who was listening. "When she first joined up, Anderson tried everything in the bloody world to get her into bed."

"Jesus. Do you lot do anything but screw around?" John laughed, but it wasn't an unfamiliar vibe—too much waiting, too much boredom, far from home.

"Yes, we get pissed pretty regularly too." Greg grinned, then continued. "One night he decides, hey, she must like musicians right? Women love musicians. So he tries to fucking serenade her with..."

"...'Mustang Sally'," John finished.

"He didn't realise we could all hear him. So when he gets to the chorus—you know the 'ride, Sally, ride' bit—he thinks he's going to be sexy about it, right?"

John groaned, half in embarrassment for the tech. "That's what Sherlock was doing on-stage."

"One of these days, Sally's going to go up there and murder him," Greg said gleefully. "Anderson just pretends it never happened."

"So... what happened back there..." John gestures back into the theatre.

"Don't worry. He's pissed off, so I think you passed the test."

"The—what the fuck did Harry get me into here?"

Greg clapped him on the shoulder and laughed as he headed towards the hotel.

* * *

Sherlock waited until everyone else had left the Beacon before walking back alone. He didn't have a fucking curfew, regardless of what John Watson thought. He took his time, letting the chill in the air dry the last of the stage sweat. By the time he got back to the hotel, he was freezing, but felt more clear-headed. It was the longest he'd spent by himself (while awake, at least) since leaving the UK. The 'Do Not Disturb' sign wasn't out on his room door, so he assumed that Greg was alone. He swiped it open to see Greg already sprawled on one of the beds, half-asleep in front of the blue light of the television. He blinked when Sherlock turned the bedside light on.

"You're being a first-rate arse," Greg said. "Just so we're clear."

Sherlock was already skimming out of his clothes. "I'm going to shower. Is this something you can lecture me about through the door, or can it wait until I'm finished?"

"He's a good guy, Sherlock," Greg's voice followed him around the corner into the bathroom.

Sherlock leaned around the door, "When have I ever had any patience for good guys?" He shut the door and turned on the water as hot as he could stand it. John Watson _was_ a good guy, he thought as he stepped into the scalding spray. That was the problem. It was infuriating. He'd spotted it in Mike's office: iron control coiled into a compact, delightfully muscular package. A good man, stalwart and true: obvious. And it should have been _boring_. He scrubbed at his hair before rinsing. Sherlock should have found John Watson utterly and unavoidably dull.

_"Make me."_ And John _had_. Sherlock's skin broke into goose-pimples despite the hot water. He wanted to see what happened to that control when pushed. So far the results had been promising. He had an overwhelming urge to see who John was _in extremis_. What had he been like in combat? What did he sound like when he came? The thought raised a tremor in his belly, heat snaking through his thigh muscles. Sherlock took a deep breath and rinsed the last of the soap away, and turned off the water.

Greg was sound asleep when Sherlock left the warmth of the bathroom, hair dripping chill down his back. He used the towel from around his waist to dry the worst of it, then threw himself under the covers of the empty bed before turning out the light.

As he lay there, he realised that the most infuriating and intriguing thing of all about John Watson was that he had said 'no'.


	3. Coloured Lights Can Hypnotise

_Chapter title is from "American Woman" by the Guess Who, covered by Lenny Kravitz_

* * *

**Chapter 3: Coloured Lights Can Hypnotise**

"John!" Harry took his call almost right away. "How are things going?"

"Harriet. When I get home, you and I are going to have a long discussion about what the word 'difficult' means." John breathed slowly through his nose. Anderson was out of the hotel room they were sharing, and John was trying not to pace.

"What?"

"Sherlock Holmes is not _difficult_, Harry. Sherlock Holmes is bloody _impossible_."

"What's happened now?"

John lost the battle and started to pace as much as the phone cord would let him. "I can deal with the constant sarcasm that comes my way. I can even deal with a little bit of groping now and then."

"But?"

"You could have warned me about the 'test', Harry."

There was just the sound of transatlantic hiss. "Did you pass?"

"Did I—" John pinched the bridge of his nose, then dissolved into laughter. Harry started giggling with him on the other end. "I hate you," he finally said.

"No you don't," she said. "You're having the time of your life. I can hear it."

John tried to catch his breath, tension melting. "No, really, Harry. What the _hell_ was that about?"

"To be fair, I didn't realise it was something he would try more than once."

"How have you not been sued? Seriously." John sat on the edge of his bed.

"I don't know," she admitted. "He certainly deserves it. But things _are_ going all right?"

"Yeah. They're a good lot. More clean-cut than I expected."

Harry chuckled. "Do you think that was accidental? At the request of Sherlock's family—and you are not to repeat any of this—we started slowly swapping his staff about a year and a half ago when it became apparent he might have a problem."

"His family. And you just... what, went along with it?"

"Mycroft Holmes can be quite persuasive where his little brother is concerned."

John sighed. "Brother, _that_ explains it. Sherlock said his brother had hired me." Harry was quiet for just a moment too long. "Bloody hell, Harry. Did he?"

"No," said Harry. "You're our employee. Mr Holmes just... gave us some criteria to look for."

"Criteria." Something about this was sanding at John's skin. "What criteria?"

"I can't say, John. I really can't. I've said too much as it is."

"Harry, I have never heard you sound afraid of anyone before."

"Not afraid, John. Just respectful. I told you. They're a powerful family. They want to make sure their youngest child is well looked-after. I thought I could hardly do worse than to send along my big brother." When John didn't respond, she said. "Now, if we can move on? You're going to have company once you get to Washington. Irene Adler is confirmed to join the tour for a few dates as a special guest."

"Adler. That's the... the opera singer? The one... wait, but I thought Sherlock just used samples of her voice."

"He does, when he has to, but we wanted to get her onstage here and there. We'll try to keep it secret, of course, but once she appears at one show, it will be all over the message boards."

John leaned back across the bed to grab his notebook. "Okay, details?"

"I'll fax you the most important details. Just so you have an idea of who you're dealing with," Harry said.

"Oh god. She's not going to expect me to kiss up to her, is she?"

Harry laughed. "Just you wait. You might _want_ to kiss up to her."

"Tell me one thing: is she as much of a pain in the arse as he is?"

"John, just keep telling yourself, 'Harriet is my sister and she loves me.'"

"Christ."

* * *

Sherlock woke in the late morning, cold and gritty-eyed. He climbed out of bed long enough to go to the loo and find his dressing gown, wrapping it around himself before heading back to bed. Greg was out already and his guitar case was gone. Probably off to jam with Anderson—who for all his personal flaws was a good enough player that Sherlock was tempted to invite him into the studio. There was a piece of paper tucked under the door. He plucked it from under the doorjamb and unfolded it as he was crawling back under the covers. The handwriting was spiky, unfamiliar:

_Tomorrow night, wear the black velvet cutaway. It's my favourite. Then maybe we can talk. I'll be watching.  
-J_

Sherlock smiled. He'd worn that particular jacket the first night of the tour, and he hadn't missed the way John's eyes had followed him around that whole night. This wasn't the first time someone had shouted 'no' as loud as they could only to slip a note to him later. Usually the note just contained a phone number. This. This was much more interesting. He settled back into the mattress and began to plan.

He was still making a mental list of ways to make John pay when Greg came into the room—carrying his guitar case as expected.

"Oi, what are you still doing in bed? Get up, you lazy git. We're going sightseeing."

Sherlock rolled on to his side. "God that sounds unspeakably dull."

Greg sat down the case and turned around, hands on his hips. "Dull. Sherlock, we're in New York City."

"Dull."

"Have it your way then." Greg paused. "Sherlock..."

"You're not dragging me out there. I've seen Manhattan before.. I'm going to have a lie in and do fuck all today."

"I talked to Anderson this morning."

"Well I suppose someone has to."

"No, Sherlock. Listen to me." Greg settled down on his bed. "He's having some problems with John."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Problems?"

"I may need to switch rooms. But if I do, you have to behave."

"Greg, what's going on?"

Greg looked uncomfortable. "I guess... John hasn't really told me anything, but whatever he went through, he has nightmares. I think he scared Anderson two nights in a row, yelling in his sleep."

"That's ridiculous."

"I know, but you know how Anderson is."

"Fine. Put John in here with me." Greg opened his mouth to say something. "I'll behave. Mostly."

"Yeah, just remember he's probably trained to kill you with his bare hands."

* * *

Heading back to the hotel, Greg snagged John by the elbow. "All right, mate?"

John watched the others walking ahead, then let Greg stop him in his tracks. "Yeah, fine. Why?"

"Listen. Can we swap rooms tonight?" Greg rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly interested in the shop window behind John's head.

"What? Why?" Greg wasn't meeting his eyes. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good. "Greg. What's going on? Did—Sherlock didn't try anything on with you, did he?" John got a snort in response. "Okay, that's a no. What, then?"

The others were long out of sight down the block before Greg spoke, his brow creased. "I—I don't know what happened. To you, I mean. But—you..."

"What, already."

Greg inhaled. "You sort of... freaked Anderson out last night."

John shook his head. "I barely saw him. I think I was asleep before he—" _Oh._ He winced. The nightmares had been bad, the smell of petrol and grass and blood filling his head until he woke up sweating. Greg just nodded slightly. "You think putting me in the room with _Sherlock_ is going to be better?"

To his credit, Greg still looked uncomfortable. "I wouldn't ask if there was a better way. We could see about getting you your own room, but the budget's so tight. Sherlock's not going to bunk with Anderson and me, and I don't trust Anderson to keep an eye on Sherlock. So..."

John folded his arms, the back of his neck feeling too hot, too tight. "Right. So what happens when I freak Sherlock out? What then?"

"I don't think—"

"No, really. Are you going to start just rotating me around the lot? 'Short straw gets to share a room with the traumatised soldier tonight'?"

"John." It was in the way he said it. If there had been anything approaching pity in Greg's voice, John could have stormed off in a huff and felt justified. It was just a quiet, matter-of-fact syllable. Four letters that managed to spell out 'it's fine, you're fine, and that's not what I meant'.

The breath rushed out of John in a burst. "Sorry. No. That's fine." It wasn't.

Greg met his eyes for a long moment, then tilted his head down the street. "Let's catch up." As they started walking, he said, "Besides, Sherlock will be so overjoyed to have you in his room, I doubt he'll sleep anyway."

"You'd be surprised, actually, at how much better that doesn't make me feel," John said.

* * *

Before dinner, John took his things down to the room that Sherlock and Greg had been sharing. Greg had already cleared out, and presumably informed Sherlock of the change in plans. John took a breath, and pushed the door open. The room was humid, and he could hear the shower running. At that point, it became a race for John, to see if he could get settled and out of the room before the water turned off.

He was halfway through hanging up his clothes when the bathroom door opened. John glanced up to see Sherlock barely clutching a towel around his narrow hips. _Christ,_ this was going to be more difficult than he'd thought. "Uh, hi."

"Oh. It's you. I thought I'd heard someone come in." He crossed the room over to his bed and John quickly looked back to the task at hand, but not before he saw that the towel sat just low enough to see the dimple that started the crack of his arse. His face felt flushed and he wanted to hit something. Or someone. He was tempted to start with Anderson.

Sherlock showed no signs of digging out clothing, and John knew he was being watched. Sherlock said, "Sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Nothing I haven't seen before."

"Oh, well in that case." John heard the towel hit the carpet. He rolled his eyes, but he looked anyway, as he was meant to. There was barely an ounce of fat on Sherlock's body, all whipcord muscle, but not even much of that. He was maybe half a stone away from 'painfully thin', but gorgeous, all white skin and black hair. The monochrome was marred only by three things: the pale sea-foam colour of his eyes, the fading red scars inside his elbows, and the deeper, darkening red of his cock, which lingered in that tempting space between fully flaccid and fully erect.

John raised his eyes up the length of Sherlock's body until their eyes met and held. One breath, two. His pulse pounded in his temples as Sherlock parted his lips as if to speak, then didn't. John's left hand clenched at his side like a gunslinger ready to go for his holster. _I could do this_, John thought. This looked nothing like the power play in the dressing room. This was an invitation. He could accept. Hell, he _wanted_ to accept. He could feel the pull in his gut, in his groin. John swallowed, then pulled his gaze away, deliberately breaking the connection. "Get dressed," he said. "It's too fucking cold in here."

Sherlock's bag was on the floor, and John didn't think the eyeful he got when Sherlock bent over was an accident. John managed to keep his gaze further averted until Sherlock was done, trying to regain his composure. When he glanced back, Sherlock was still watching him as he buttoned the cuffs on a dark blue silk shirt. John felt a little scruffy in battered old jeans and a t-shirt that had seen better days. As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock said, "Are you going to dress for dinner?"

"I suppose I should."

There was a smirk playing at the corners of Sherlock's mouth as he settled on to his bed and leaned against the headboard. "I'll wait for you, then."

John recognised the challenge. "Fine," he said. He knew what Sherlock was waiting for. John tightened his jaw and briefly considered taking his clothes into the bathroom to change. Instead he dug out the only decent jacket he'd brought with him, and a fresh shirt and pair of jeans. He stayed where he was, and stripped with quick efficiency down to his pants. He didn't dare look to see if Sherlock was still watching him from the bed, although the way John's skin was twitching he knew he had to be.

The scar on his shoulder was still violent, livid red, and there was a smaller scar pattern that skidded down and around his side from burning bits of wood from exploding huts. If Sherlock were one of his old squadmates, John wouldn't think twice about it, but Sherlock with his damned lean, civilian body... it was difficult not to be self-conscious.

He kept his left side angled away from Sherlock on the bed. Impossible to get dressed that way, of course. As soon as he reached down for his jeans, he heard a sharp intake of breath. He glanced over and saw the unexpected: Sherlock with flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips, looking as flustered as John had felt moments before. It felt like the first time John gave an order and watched someone jump to obey: that little shift of power from one person to the other.

John dropped his gaze away from Sherlock and continued getting dressed, as slowly and deliberately as he could, pretending he couldn't see the way Sherlock fought to keep from squirming.

As they walked out to meet the others for dinner, John might have had a little extra swagger in his step.

* * *

By the time Sherlock got back to the room after dinner, John was already there asleep—or feigning sleep remarkably well. Sherlock kept quiet as he moved around the room. Their flight to Washington was in eight hours. John had already packed, his belongings stacked neatly at the foot of his bed. All that was missing was the footlocker. Sherlock's clothes were scattered everywhere, flung haphazardly each time he got dressed. He gathered them up and started packing. He paused now and then to look at the man sleeping in the bed opposite his.

John was sprawled on his back like an extravagant child, arms and legs a jumble under the covers. His right arm was thrown up over his head, face turned into the crook of his elbow. The line of his neck, that lovely sternomastoid muscle, was stretched taut under his skin. Sherlock had a sudden overwhelming urge to lean over and lick it. The thought stopped him where he stood, and he breathed deep for several moments, mirroring the steady, even breathing of John asleep.

John was not behaving at all the way Sherlock had expected. He wasn't acting on his obvious interest, not even on Sherlock's obvious interest. Was there someone back home? No, he would have heard by now if there were. Phone calls, post cards, something. There was no one waiting for John at home. Was he really waiting for a response to that ridiculous note?

Sherlock threw his clothes into the nearest suitcase, then undressed. John slept on. Sherlock still wasn't tired enough to sleep, so he pulled his guitar out of his case. He'd left the violin at home—a concession to space versus necessity—so he settled for second best. He turned on the light farthest from John and settled back against the headboard, cradling the instrument. He played as quietly as he could, needing more to go through the movement than to hear the music. Muscle memory triggered quiet in his brain as his fingers moved, the sound of skin hitting strings almost louder than the music itself.

John muttered something, and Sherlock stopped, thinking he'd woken him. John muttered again, and twitched. Sweat was beading on his forehead. John's head rolled to one side, his lips moving. One of the nightmares, then.

"John." Softly at first.

More muttering, something that sounded like "Get down."

"John." Louder.

The twitching threatened to become thrashing.

"_John._"

He jerked awake at that, eyes wide and unseeing for the first two seconds. "Mm?" He struggled to a sitting position.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock could see that he wasn't, but asked anyway.

John scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of both hands then shook his head, hard. His breathing was still uneven. "Yeah. Fine. I'm fine. Sorry if I woke you."

Sherlock suppressed a chuckle. "John, I love my music, but I don't sleep with my guitar." John finally looked over then, actually seeing Sherlock. He gave a small smile that managed to look absolutely nothing like John Watson. "Do you want to talk about it?" The sentence felt odd in Sherlock's mouth. He was quite certain it was one he'd never uttered before.

"Nothing to talk about. Greg warned you, I assume?" John threw back the covers and pulled his right knee up, massaging it as if it were painful.

"He said you had nightmares, yes."

"Do you ever sleep?" John's voice had an edge to it as he focused on his knee.

"Sometimes." There didn't seem to be anything else to say. "Will it keep you awake if I play?"

John lowered his leg with a sigh. "I don't know. It might." He glanced over. "I think I'd like that though, either way."

"Lie back down," Sherlock said. "At least try to sleep."

John settled back into his bed, curling on to his side. "Sherlock?" His voice was subdued. "Thank you."

Sherlock bent his head over the guitar with a faint smile. "You're welcome, John."

John's eyes closed, and eventually his breathing evened out in peaceful sleep.

* * *

John woke to his alarm the next morning with the uneasy sensation of having done something unutterably stupid the night before. Normally it was a feeling he got only after a night of drinking, but last night he hadn't—oh. The nightmare was blessedly distant by the light of day, but the aftermath wasn't. He ran quickly down a mental checklist of things Sherlock had not been: naked, snarky, grabby. Then he looked at the list of things Sherlock had been: kind, even concerned. The man in question was growling something unintelligible from under a pile of pillows. John reached across and turned off the alarm. Sherlock quieted and John looked at him—well, at the form under pillows and blankets—for a few minutes.

Not twelve hours before Sherlock had been parading around the room mother-naked, trying to goad John into something he was sure he would both enjoy and regret. Then eight hours later had soothed him to sleep with music after a nightmare. He tried to reconcile the two in his mind, and couldn't. John shook his head and went to shower.

The flight to Washington was blessedly quiet, and this time, John remembered to nap as much as he could.

* * *

John was just getting the last of this things put away in the room when the front desk rang to let him know that Irene Adler had arrived. He ran a quick hand over his hair, grabbed his keys and went to start the busy day in earnest.

The first order of business was to get Ms Adler settled. John mentally ran through the information that Harry had faxed him: American, educated in the UK at the same music school as Sherlock. Had made her debut with the New York Metropolitan Opera two years earlier and hadn't looked back since. She'd taken some flack from the classical community for her collaboration with Sherlock, but it hadn't seemed to hurt her career, nor had her unconventional approach to... pretty much everything.

"Ms Adler?" John crossed the marble floor of the hotel lobby, his hand extended. The petite dark-haired woman turned around and smiled expectantly. "John Watson, tour manager. Welcome to Washington, DC."

She took his hand briefly, "Irene, please. So you're the new one." Her accent was American and there was a glint of amusement in green-grey eyes. "Sherlock's told me about you."

"I shudder to think," John said, returning the smile.

"Not at all. He was quite complimentary." She looked up him and down and released his hand. "Not without reason, I see."

John returned the appraisal: she was lovely, casual in snug-fitting jeans and an open-throated green blouse. He might have to revisit some of his preconceptions about opera singers. When he met her eyes finally, she was smiling archly. He said, "He's been keeping you a secret. Selfish git."

She laughed. "I think we're going to get along just fine, Mr Watson."

"Ah no. If you're Irene, I'm John." He picked up her bags before the bellboy could. "Let's get you settled in. I'm sure you'll want to rest for tonight."

"And I'm sure you have far more important things to do than babysit me," she said, reaching to take the bags back from him. "I know how this goes. Even now there are three people waiting for you to come and save the day, aren't there?"

John chuckled. "Well. Maybe two. The third will come later."

"Go," Irene said. She winked at him. "I can take care of myself. If I get bored, I can always go harass Sherlock."

"Oh, that's right, you know him. You went to school together, yeah?"

"Yes. We know each other quite well," she said.

John smiled, but it felt tight and wrong on his face. "Well then. I'll leave you to it. Sherlock has my mobile number. Call if you need anything."

He was the first crew member to the venue, but only just. Molly came walking up from the opposite side of the street just as he was opening the stage door.

"Hiya," she said. Her long brown ponytail swayed behind her as she jogged to catch up. "Ready for tonight?"

"Are we ever?" John smiled. Molly was a nice girl—odd to think of her that way, since she was only a few years younger than he was, but nonetheless: a nice girl.

"We will be. We always are."

They moved through back corridors after being checked in by security. Before he could think too much about it, John asked, "What's the story with Sherlock and Irene?" He didn't need full lighting to see Molly's blush—it was always an instantaneous reaction to Sherlock's name.

"They're old friends, I guess," Molly said. "In school together. She tells everybody who'll listen about the time she beat him in a composition contest at school. She'll even sing the piece she won with, if you ask her nicely."

"I'll bet Sherlock loves that."

"Just don't ask him to play _his_ piece," Molly said, her nose wrinkling. "It's some terrible modern thing that keeps going back and forth between the same two or three notes." It was the closest John had ever heard her come to criticising Sherlock.

"So... they have a history together?"

Molly shrugged. "I don't honestly know. I mean..."—her voice was very casual, very light—"it's pretty obvious they slept together at some point. I don't know if it's still happening though." She took a deep breath. "Listen, I should get up to the booth. I don't want a repeat of last show."

John nodded, then dove into his day.

* * *

There were two shows in Washington, so there was no need to tear down after the first show. It was Greg who suggested they go out, which was how John found himself perched around a tiny, high table with Greg, Sally, Molly, and Anderson while music thumped loud enough that John could feel it in his chest. They hadn't been there long, just long enough for everyone to get pleasantly pissed.

Sherlock and Irene were out on the dance floor, still dressed essentially as they had been onstage. Irene's dress was almost too short to be decent, black and white diagonal stripes over black fishnet stockings. John thought he might be starting to understand why she was such a polarising figure in the opera world. Sherlock wasn't much better. He was wearing deep tan trousers so tight John was shocked they hadn't split open when Sherlock first walked across the stage, and knee-high black boots laced only three-quarters of the way up his calves. Over it all, he wore a loose, billowy white shirt and a short leather jacket decorated with silver studs and zips. The effect was very piratical, and John had spent most of the show uncertain which of them to stare at. As Irene had spent a good portion of her time on stage draped around Sherlock, 'both' had been a perfectly valid option.

When Sherlock had first come into the green room before the show, he'd given John a very strange, pointed look, as if waiting to see his reaction to his costume. John had simply said, "Nice," and went back to finalising things with Greg.

'Nice' might have been inaccurate, he thought, watching Sherlock move from one partner to another. The song changed, and Sally jumped off her chair to squeeze out on the dance floor. Molly and Greg were deep in some sort of conversation John couldn't hear despite being a foot away. The music overhead was different from the loud thumping of before, there was just the steady undulating pulse of drums with a little underlay of bass, and over it, a low growling voice. Before John could get too caught up in listening to it, Irene emerged from the crowd at his side.

"Come on," she said, tugging at his arm.

"Uh, no. I don't dance," he said. His only concession to going out had been to put on a jacket and to let Sally do something ridiculous to his hair with gel and a lot of fluffing about—he was definitely outclassed.

"Come onnn," she said again, smiling. "It'll be fun."

He let her draw him out as the beat of the song picked up, a second voice joining the first in a hollow sort of harmony. John tried to remember the last time he'd been on a dance floor, and hoped he didn't make an arse of himself. Other couples formed around them to the slower, less frenetic beat. Irene danced with her arms overhead, hips swinging. Their eyes met, and she grinned, swaying closer. Within a measure or two, she was nearly touching him with each movement of her hips and dancing suddenly got much... easier. He didn't mirror her, exactly, but he let her lead, keeping his hands to himself, but letting the music push and pull through his body. Irene never lost the same teasing smile as she kept her eyes on him.

The thudding of John's pulse in his throat was nearly as strong as the pulse of the music. When Irene finally slithered against him, he slid his right hand around to press firmly in the small of her back, keeping her there. He smiled to see her surprised look and loosened his grip just enough to give her the chance to pull away. She didn't. He pulled her close again and kept his eyes on hers as they started to circle together, hips pressing and almost-not-quite grinding. John worried just a moment what her reaction to be to his imminent erection—then a moment later knew he had nothing to worry about. If anything, she pressed closer and John had to shut his eyes and focus on his breathing.

In her heels, they were nearly of a height, and when John opened his eyes again, she was right there, lips parted, pupils dilated. The message was unmistakable. He leaned closer to kiss her, only to see her eyes dart to just over his shoulder as a pair of hands closed over his hips from behind. John's first instinct was to throw an elbow into whoever was grabbing him, until he heard a familiar, pouty voice rumble close to his ear, "You're having entirely too much fun without me, John." Sherlock's breath was hot against his skin, followed by the warm, slow trace of the tip of his tongue up the outside curve of John's ear. Before John could react, Sherlock had settled himself into the slow, grinding rhythm John and Irene had established.

He looked back to Irene who looked, if anything, looked more intrigued than ever. _Sod it,_ John thought, and closed the gap and kissed her. As he did, Sherlock pressed tight against his arse, pushing John's hips harder into Irene's. Her hands moved to rest on his shoulders, and she gently pulled back before the kiss could grow any more intense. She was still looking over John's shoulder, and his stomach dropped in disappointment. He let himself be caught between Sherlock and Irene, let them toy with him, pressing and grinding until he was so hard it hurt—a state that wasn't helped by the clear awareness that he wasn't the only one every time Sherlock slid his hips against him.

By the time the song ended, John could barely breathe. He shook Sherlock and Irene off and left the dance floor, pressing his way through the crowd to get to the bar. He had a shot of American whiskey in hand and was about to down it when a blond girl in too much eye makeup climbed onto the stool next to his.

"That was incredibly _hot_," she said, smiling at him. "You are one lucky son of a bitch."

His cheeks got hot, but he smiled back. "It was... unexpected. Just a joke my friends were playing on me."

Her eyes got wide. "Ohmigod, where are you from? England? Your accent is _amazing_."

"Cheers," he said, before downing the drink, feeling it warm his stomach. "Grew up just outside Manchester."

"Say something else," she said, leaning closer.

John took another look at her. Dressed in skimpy clubwear, a microscopic black skirt and off the shoulder top, and she had a lush figure. God, he was tempted, especially after five minutes trapped between Irene and Sherlock. He leaned down to speak directly in her ear. "What should I say, love?"

The girl practically wriggled with delight. "You should say you want to come with me to somewhere a little quieter."

He slid off the stool and offered her his arm. "I'm all yours." She led him past the dance floor, and despite himself, he found himself looking for Sherlock. He spotted him, just at the edge and was startled to see that Sherlock was staring at him as the girl pulled him past.

They'd barely made it into the hallway leading to the toilets when she pressed into him and started kissing him. God, it felt so good to just kiss someone without worrying about ulterior motives—but at the same time, he couldn't shake the image of Sherlock's face from his head. He'd looked... disappointed? The girl's arms were around his neck, her body pressed tight to his, and that should have been enough to drive anything else from his head.

After a moment, he pulled back. "I'm sorry. You're lovely, you really are. I can't do this right now." She gave him a small pout. He stroked his thumb at the corner of her mouth. "Believe me, I'd like to. It's... complicated."

"Boyfriend? Or girlfriend?" She smirked. "Or both?"

He looked back towards the main room of the club, then leaned down to kiss her cheek. "Neither." For now. Whatever was going on, it was past time John figured it out and got past it. "I told you, it's complicated. Sorry, love."

John made his escape to the men's, where he went into one of the stalls and just stood breathing for several moments. His head was pounding and he was suddenly exhausted. He squared his shoulders and walked out, washed his hands, and headed back into the club.

It was short work to find Greg, still sitting at the table and talking to Molly. "Make sure everybody gets home in one piece, yeah?" John said. "I'm knackered." Greg nodded distractedly and John shook his head and left.

Back at the hotel room, John put out the do not disturb sign and turned on the water for a shower. A decent wank and a few hours of sleep and he should be able to think clearly again. And god, he needed to think.

The hot water and the sheer relief of physical release—during which time John may or may not have thought about what happened on the dance floor—combined into a potent sleeping potion, one that had John's eyes closing as soon as he fell into the bed.

When John's alarm went off the next morning, he opened his eyes to see that the bed opposite his hadn't been slept in. _Shit_. He sat up and scrambled for the room phone, dialling Greg's room number. After three rings he answered.

"Greg, you were supposed to get everyone back last night. What happened to Sherlock?"

"He's not with you?"

"No, didn't come back last night."

Greg yawned loudly, and John could hear an alarm go off in the other room before someone smacked it to turn it off. "He's probably still with Irene then. He went back to her room when we came back."

John was at a loss to explain the sudden sick lurch of his insides. "Oh, right. Do me a favour, make sure, yeah? I don't want to have to tell my sister that I lost her biggest star."

* * *

"Bloody hell. It's your turn tonight, Greg. We agreed." John was tired and John just wanted to go to bed. It had been three days since Washington, and he had spent most of it avoiding Sherlock and Irene as much as humanly possible. He and Sherlock had hardly spoken three words, despite the fact that Sherlock had come back to the room every night except for that one. John had spent most of those nights hovering in shallow sleep, afraid of the vulnerability of the nightmares.

"I know, I know." They were standing in the lobby of the night's hotel as the rest of the group streamed past them with personal belongings dragging. "But I think I've got a shot."

"With Molly," John shook his head. "Don't you think that's a bad idea, shagging one of the crew?"

Greg just looked at him. "You're not serious. You are. Is that why you're being so uptight?"

"I'm not being uptight."

"Uh-huh." He laughed. "It happens all the time. Besides, you've met Molly. She's probably one of the most wholesome things about this whole tour."

"And how long _have_ you been hung up on her?"

"I can't help it, she's cute," Greg mumbled.

"This fucking soap opera. I feel like I'm back at school." John grinned. "Did you pass her a note?"

Greg grabbed his arm. "I'd do it for you. If, you know, there was ever a reason."

"Fuck off," John brushed off his hand and rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine, fine. I'll babysit the bloody child while you go try and get off with the crew."

"You're a pal," Greg said, and trotted off. John sighed and went to get a key for his room.

The bathroom door was closed when John let himself in. One of the double beds—the one nearest the window, of course—had clearly been claimed. It was a mess already, with pillows strewn everywhere. John set his bag down near the small desktop and toed off his loafers. It was a night off, and John planned to take full advantage of it: propped up in bed doing as little as possible before falling into a solid twelve hours of sleep.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, when the bathroom door opened with a rush of steam. "Where's Greg? I thought he was with me tonight."

"Change of plans," John said without opening his eyes.

"Molly?" Sherlock sounded amused.

"Isn't love grand," John said. He heard Sherlock moving around the room. "You can open your eyes now, I'm not naked."

"You prat, I was trying to nap." John opened his eyes anyway. "Going out with the rest of them tonight?"

Sherlock shrugged. The clothes he was putting on definitely weren't clothes for clubbing or going out, they were soft and worn. John would almost say cosy, if it were anybody else. "It's Detroit. Boring." He pulled a dark blue dressing gown from his bag and wrapped it tight around himself.

Something in the tone of his voice caught John's attention. There was an underlying tremor that gave away the lie. John took a harder look at him, the vocal tremor mirrored in his hands. Barely there, but enough to make knotting a dressing gown tricky. "Bad night?" he asked.

Another shrug. "Not bad enough that you have to babysit me. Go on and do whatever you had planned." There was something oddly vulnerable in Sherlock's profile as he rifled through the hotel desk, a total contrast to the cocksure, spoilt brat who normally looked out from that face.

"I had nothing planned but some crap American telly and some sleep." He paused. "I can... go, if you'd rather be alone."

"No, stay." Sherlock flopped on the opposite bed and stared at the ceiling. "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything. Just don't be boring. What did you do in the army?"

John snorted. "You don't really care about my army stories."

Sherlock rolled onto his side, pulling the dressing gown with him. He propped his head up on his hand, looking for all the world like a teenage girl at a slumber party. "Sure I do. Consider it as doing my part for Queen and country. Where did you serve?"

"Sierra Leone, mostly. Well, at the end, at least." John stretched back out on his bed, pillowing his head on his hands. "That's where I got shot."

"I thought you got shot in the shoulder."

"Oh ho, the rock god thinks he's funny now." There was a soft whumph as something large and white hit John in the face. "Thank you," he said with a grin, and propped the newly-acquired pillow behind his head. He felt some of the tension dissolve. "It was the shoulder, and my knee. I was a fucking mess."

"Knee? I've not noticed any sign of injury." Sherlock had that odd edge to his voice he got when he was thinking.

"You wouldn't," John said. "But I'm not going to be hauling my arse for eighteen hours over rough terrain carrying twenty-three kilos of gear any time soon." He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and added, "So that made me effectively useless."

"Sierra Leone... a few months ago, yes?" A puzzle was coming together, John could hear it. "With that level of physical requirement, you weren't regular army." Sherlock paused. "SAS or Paras?"

"22 SAS."

"That's impressive."

"You don't seem the type to be impressed by that sort of thing," John said.

"I'm impressed by competence," came the response. "Surely you've noticed by now."

"Well, I've noticed the opposite, anyway." John shifted, an itch in his spine demanding a change of subject. "What about you? What were you doing a few months ago? I spent September in hospital."

Sherlock laughed, a low unhappy sound. "So did I. While you had a morphine pump, I had methadone."

"Right," John said, a hiss escaping from between his teeth. "Not sure I'd guess which of us got the worst end of that deal. Are you—how _are_ you coping?"

The silence went on long enough that John thought Sherlock wasn't going to answer. Finally he says, "Some days, the only thing that keeps me from going back is the thought of going through withdrawal again."

"Bad?"

"The methadone helped, although heroin never had as strong a pull for me as coke did." Sherlock paused, then said, "_Does._" John didn't know what to say to that. After a moment, Sherlock said, "There's one thing I don't understand."

John looked over. "Only one?"

"Shut up." It was a good-natured 'shut up', though. "The other night, in the club. I know you were more than a little wound up, and I know that little American girl would have got you off in a second."

"Hey."

"You know what I meant." Sherlock looked over and gave him a quirked smile. "But you didn't."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. Sexual frustration is one of the easiest things to read in a body's movements. You turned her down. Here you are, a genuine war hero, touring with a rock band. You could snap your fingers and have any man or woman you wanted. Christ, you could screw any one of _us_ if you wanted and just walk away afterwards. Even Irene's got her eye on you." He looked at John across the gap between the two beds. "Why haven't you?"

They watched each other for a few moments as John tried to formulate an answer. Why hadn't he? He looked away first, going back to studying the hotel room ceiling. "I told you. This is my job. Can't very well keep you lot in line if I'm trying to get off with everyone, can I? Besides, Irene's got you, hasn't she?"

"Irene? And _me_?" Sherlock chuckled. "God, not in years. She got tired of me when I stopped playing in orchestra pits. Besides, she remembers me when I was a skinny twit with glasses."

"But I thought—the other night—"

"You were _jealous_," Sherlock said.

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were. You thought I spent the night with her and that's why you haven't talked to me for three days." Sherlock snorted breath out. "Of _course_. I should have seen that."

"I was not jealous of Irene, Sherlock. I turned the American girl down because I—I don't work that way." It was a blatant lie, John had had more than his fair share of casual shags. The problem was lying in the next bed over, talking to him like a human being for maybe the second time ever, and watching him intently enough that he could feel the pressure of Sherlock's eyes against his skin. Damaged. Gorgeous. _Dangerous. _And here John was, right in the middle of it.

"Liar." Sherlock's voice was softer than he'd ever heard it, and—come to think of it—much too close. John rolled his head to the right against the pillow, and there Sherlock was, crouched next to the bed, eye to eye with him. "What are you afraid of?"

_Shit shit shit._ John swallowed and rolled over on to his side, propped up on an elbow. "Look at you," he finally said. "You're a fucking train wreck, Sherlock." The words were harsh, but his tone of voice wasn't. "Some wrecks... you get caught in them you don't—you can't just walk away."

"Then don't." With a little flex of his knees, Sherlock closed the gap between them and covered John's mouth with his own. John pulled back at first, then parted his lips and slid his hand around the back of Sherlock's head to pull him closer. Sherlock's mouth opened against his, his tongue teasing its way between John's lips, tasting faintly of toothpaste and tobacco. Sherlock nudged John back on to his back and knelt beside him on the bed, giving John a moment to war with his better judgement. Their mouths moved open and soft against each other.

John broke the kiss, heat rising in his cheeks. "Sherlock, this'd better not be some sort of game."

Sherlock crouched over him, hands to either side of John's head. "It's not, I swear." He lowered his mouth to one of John's cheekbones and murmured, "Not this time." His hair tickled as it trailed across John's face. He reached up to brush it away, and instead tangled his fingers in it, pulling Sherlock's mouth back to his, arching up off the mattress to get closer. Sherlock's hands left a tingling trail against the skin of his belly as they slid under John's t-shirt, drawing a small gasp from him. John collapsed back against the bed and Sherlock followed him, licking and biting up the side of John's neck while he pushed the thin cotton inexorably upwards.

"This is a terrible idea," John said, last word cut off as Sherlock bit at his collar bone through his shirt.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock said.

John laughed, breath catching. Sherlock settled against his body, one hand trapped beneath John's t-shirt, long fingers dragging over his skin. Their mouths met again in a slow, easy slide. John pushed his hands into Sherlock's hair and tugged, just a little. With each tug he could feel a corresponding twitch in Sherlock's cock, pressed against John's thigh.

"And here I thought you were angry with me for not following your instructions," Sherlock murmured against John's mouth. "Your last note sounded quite cross."

"Note?" John tried to find a way to talk and kiss at the same time. "What note?"

Sherlock drew back to look at him. A rattling pounding on the door made them both jump. "John! Are you in there?" It was Greg, with a strange edge in his voice. "Answer your goddamn mobile, man!"

"Fuck." John rolled out from under Sherlock, pulling his shirt down as he went. He had a second to hope there wasn't a bite mark on his neck before he opened the door. "What's going on?"

Greg's hand was combing through his hair, not for the first time, to judge by the way it was standing up, and his face was flushed. "What the hell, John. I've been calling you for ten minutes."

"Yeah, sorry, it's in my jacket..." He didn't turn to look, but he knew Sherlock was standing just over his shoulder, close enough for John to feel his body heat.

"We need you. Someone broke into Irene's hotel room."

"Shit," John said, immediately swinging back into the room to grab his phone and keys. "What did they take? Did you notify the hotel yet? The police?"

"John." Something in Greg's voice made him stop and look at him. "Whoever it was... it's completely trashed. You—you need to come see this."

John wanted to tell Sherlock to stay in the room, lock the door. The prickle at the base of his skull said something horrible had happened. His fingers itched for the heavy comfort of steel and ammunition, his shoulders for the weight of body armour. He turned back to Sherlock, who was already pulling on shoes. "Sherlock, you should stay here."

"And miss this? Not a chance."

John sighed. "Fine. Just. Stick close."

Irene's room was on the other side of the hotel on the same floor. The door was open when they got there. John could hear a woman's voice murmuring comforting words. Molly. He could smell perfume, choking thick, getting stronger with each step towards the door.

The room was in shambles. Clothing lay everywhere, most of it torn to rags. Broken glass on the dresser proved to be the source of the smell. Written on the mirror, in what could only be Irene's distinctive blood-red lipstick: _TOUCH HIM AGAIN AND I WILL SKIN YOU_.


	4. Devil Sleeping in My Bed

_Chapter title is from "Kinda I Want To", Nine Inch Nails_

* * *

**Chapter 4: Devil Sleeping in My Bed**

_TOUCH HIM AGAIN AND I WILL SKIN YOU._

Sherlock looked at the words, then looked at the mess in Irene's room. Molly stood with her arm around Irene, who looked stunned. The first thing John did was to knock the bathroom door open wide—had it been closed, no doubt he would have kicked it open. Then he checked the small closet by the bathroom. John even looked under the bed to make certain there was no room for a person under there. He was _clearing the room_, Sherlock realised. If he squinted, he could half-see the rifle in John's hands. There was no logical reason for the sudden beat of Sherlock's pulse in his temples.

Instead of a rifle, John had his cheap mobile out, provided for the sole purpose of keeping them all in touch with each other in the States. Before dialling, he looked at Greg, "So you just _left_ them alone to come and find me? What were you thinking?" He didn't give Greg a chance to answer, instead dialled and headed back towards the room door. As he passed Irene and Molly, he laid a hand on Irene's shoulder briefly before his call connected. "Harry. Yeah, I know what time it is. Listen. We have a problem." He passed into the hall and closed the door behind him.

Greg was pacing, leaving Sherlock to try to piece together what happened. On an initial glance, it looked as if the room had been vandalised. As Sherlock looked closer, however, it was apparent that—aside from the writing on the mirror—no actual hotel property was damaged. The destruction was limited to Irene's belongings—clothing, shoes, toiletries—nothing had been left untouched. How long would it take to be so targeted and thorough? He looked back to the writing on the mirror. Difficult to tell, as mirror writing wasn't precisely the same as writing on paper... he'd need to compare with the originals to be certain. He headed for the door.

"Right," John was saying, "I should have guessed you'd have a plan for everything. Hang on." He reached out and snagged Sherlock by the sleeve. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Back to the room. I need something there."

"Not by yourself, you're not. Take Greg. I'll stay here with the girls."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but ducked back into the room. "I'm not to go anywhere without an escort, according to the Captain," he said.

"Bloody hell," said Greg. "I'll come. Let me ring Sally and Donovan."

"Call on the way. I have something you need to see."

* * *

"Jesus, Sherlock. Were you planning on telling anybody about this?" Greg looked at the two notes, side by side on the dresser. The first, the request to wear the cutaway coat, the second, found after that night at the club:

_Is that how you want to play? I can be unexpected as well, love. We'll talk soon.  
-J_

Sherlock looked at the notes. In hindsight... well, everything was clearer there, wasn't it? "It didn't seem important," he said.

"Not important. Someone sends you notes telling you how to dress and you don't thi—" Greg took a closer look, then laughed. "Oh you cagey bastard." Sherlock moved to pick up the notes, and Greg caught his hand. "You thought they were from _him_."

Sherlock pulled his hand away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do." Greg grinned. "Did I interrupt something earlier?"

"Shut up." Sherlock scooped up the notes. "Come on. Let's get back."

"Christ," Greg shook his head. "It's the same person who trashed Irene's room, isn't it?"

"It might be."

"I never thought I'd miss the days when your creepy fan mail came via the post."

* * *

When Sherlock and Greg arrived back at Irene's room, everyone but John was standing outside of it. Molly was hovering around Irene like a mother hen; Sally and Anderson, having been summoned by Greg, leaned against the walls across from each other. Neither of them looked happy, but between them, Sally looked the most put out. From inside the room, Sherlock could hear John speaking to someone. "The police are on their way, then?"

"Yes, sir." The voice was respectful, but not subservient. A glance through the doorway and Sherlock saw John, standing with his arms folded across his chest facing a man perhaps ten years his senior. Although John was wearing torn jeans and a t-shirt perhaps a size too small and the older man was wearing a decently tailored suit, there was enough of a similarity in their mannerisms for Sherlock to identify the man as ex-military. Hotel security, clearly.

"And when can we move Ms Adler to her new room?" John asked.

"Right away, Mr Watson." The man looked around the room. "Unfortunately, the evidence must stay here, but we can certainly make Miss Adler comfortable. Contact the concierge for anything she might need help replacing."

John shifted his stance and lowered his arms. "I spoke with Mr Holmes' publicist and we'll be preparing a statement. Can we count on your staff to help keep the press away until then?"

Greg elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. "Stop staring."

"He's quite good at this though, isn't he?" Sherlock felt an odd rush of possessiveness, as if John's easy manner in the wake of the unexpected and the frightening were somehow things that belonged to Sherlock.

"Harry's done a good job of coaching him," Greg conceded. "Jesus, Sherlock. Just how far gone are you?" Sherlock looked over to see Greg wearing a broad, knowing grin. "I've never seen you this... moony before."

"I am not moony. I'm keeping an eye on a potentially troublesome situation."

"Yeah, there's a situation, all right," Greg smirked.

"What situation?" Sally asked, stepping over their way.

"Sherlock's situation," said Greg. "With our tour manager."

"Oh for god's sake," said Sherlock. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Sherlock, if you drive this one off too I bloody swear I will erase every sodding sample loop you brought with you. I'd rather tour with him than with you at this point." Sally's voice carried to the others.

"What's he done _now_?" asked Anderson.

"I don't know," said Sally, "but apparently there's a situation."

Sherlock scowled over at Greg, who was on the verge of laughter. "Bloody lot of gossips, you are." He turned his back on them in favour of Irene and Molly, who were still standing a bit apart.

"Molly, I'll be fine," Irene was shrugging off an attempt at comfort. "Honestly, I'm more mad than afraid right now." She looked up at Sherlock. "What do you think? Are you the one I'm not supposed to be touching? Or is it John? Because you two are the only two 'hims' I've been touching lately."

"I think... perhaps me," Sherlock said.

Before he could say more, John called his name. "Did you get what you needed?" he asked, coming out of the destroyed room.

Sherlock paused. "I have something you should probably see before the police get here."

"Oh Christ," said John. "We're not going to be flushing anything illegal down the toilets, are we? I mean, you're not—"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock laid his hand on John's elbow and guided him away from the others. He drew the notes from his pocket and handed them to John. "The first one arrived when we were in New York. The second one in Washington."

John's expression darkened as he read them. "And you didn't think I might need to know about this?"

"Not especially, no." That earned him a grim look from John. "It didn't seem important."

"Right. I'll be sure to let Irene know that." A muscle in John's jaw twitched, a pulse that spoke volumes louder than his actual speech.

"I thought—" Sherlock lowered his voice. "I thought they were harmless. Someone flirting with me. It happens, you know."

"Oh, of course."

"You're angry with me."

"Very good. You _are_ a clever one." John studied the notes again for a moment. "So you thought... what. That someone followed you from New York to Washington just to see if they could get a leg over?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I thought."

"Jesus."

"It has happened," Sherlock said.

"You are a piece of work, aren't you?"

"John, I—" John turned away before he could finish his thought, as two uniformed police officers strode down the hallway towards them, trailing the security head.

"Were you able to check the security cameras?" John asked.

Hotel security actually looked sheepish. "The one in this hallway seems to have... broken."

"Great. That's fantastic." John's voice had a harsh bite to it. Sherlock almost felt a little sorry for the man facing him. John nodded at the uniformed pair. "Evening, officers."

"Mr Watson, we'd like to ask a few questions of each of you."

* * *

As the police interviewed each of the crew individually, John fought the urge to pace, hands jammed into his pockets. He'd brought the notes to the officers' attention first thing—_unlike some people_. They'd all been moved to Irene's new room so the crime scene people could examine the original room. Lot of good it'd likely do, given how many people had wandered through, himself included. Molly was the last to be seen. When she came back in, her eyes were red and the officer was resting a light hand on her shoulder. "Ms Hooper needs to come down to the station with us."

He couldn't have been more shocked if the officer had declared herself a kiss-o-gram and pulled off the uniform hat. "Molly?"

"I met him, John." Molly's voice quavered like she was about to burst into tears again. "There was a man at the Washington show... he asked where we were staying. I thought he was f-flirting with me..."

It was like watching a puppy get kicked. "It's okay, Molly." John stepped in and gave her a quick hug, giving the officer a questioning look.

"We'd like her to talk to our sketch artist," Officer Fawaz (according to her namebadge) said. "Nothing more than that." She smiled reassuringly. John didn't feel terribly reassured.

"Can someone go with her?"

"Of course," Officer Fawaz said. John rubbed at his brow and looked again at the mess that had been Irene's room. His eyes lingered on the words on the mirror.

"I'll go with her," came a voice from behind him. Greg.

"Thanks, mate," John said. He looked at Molly. "All right?" She nodded, and leaned into Greg when he put an arm around her.

"We'll make it as quick as we can," Officer Fawaz said. "We're nearly done here."

"What do you recommend we do for now?" John asked.

"Well, it seems that Ms Adler is the current focus for... whoever this man is. I'd recommend that she not go anywhere alone for the time being. None of you should, really, but especially not her."

"Right," John said. "Greg, when you get back, you're rooming with Sherlock. I'll stay with Irene. Until then, everyone is sticking with someone, yeah?" He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. There was general assent around the room, except for Sherlock, who was focused on John. John met his eyes briefly, then looked away.

"I'd like to go along to the station," Sherlock said, drawing John's eyes back to him in surprise. "If that's all right." He glanced at John with a hint of challenge and a sardonic smile.

"Fine," said Fawaz. "Yes. Maybe you know this guy too."

* * *

"Well, I suppose I have an excuse to go shopping for a new wardrobe now," Irene said, looking at what little remained of her belongings. Sally had loaned her a few things, the hotel had provided missing toiletries. "My manager said she'd have some things delivered tomorrow. This is just—" she laughed, a bit shakily. "I certainly never expected anything like this on tour."

John had grabbed the most important things from his old room: some clothes, his shaving kit, the absolutely terrible spy novel he'd bought at the last airport. He was settling them into the corner when Irene spoke. He glanced over. "You're sure you're okay?" When she didn't answer right away, he stepped over and gently took her by the arm. "Sit down." She let him guide her to the edge of the bed and sit her down. He grabbed a glass from the desk and filled it with water from the tap. "Drink."

She did, but then said, "No. I'm okay. I just—I had an ex once. Who used similar tactics." John sat down next to her and made a sympathetic noise. "It was... unsettling, is all."

"Of course," John said.

"Sherlock said he thought the message on the mirror was about him."

John huffed a short laugh. "Everything's about him, isn't it?"

Irene's lips twitched at the corners into what might be the start of a smile. "Usually."

"In this case though, I think he's right. With the notes he's been getting."

"And you can't imagine anyone being jealous of me touching you," she said.

"What?" John raised his eyebrows.

"When I got back to my room tonight, do you know what my first thought was?" Irene asked. "I thought that Sherlock was either playing a terrible joke, or that he'd finally lost it." John shook his head, but she continued. "If I'd had my way, that night in DC might have ended very differently. But I saw Sherlock behind you. And I saw the look he gave me."

"What look?"

Irene did finally smile a that, a small tease of a grin. "'Back off bitch, he's mine.' He's never been good at sharing his toys."

Something went dark in John's mind, a tingle of pleasure down his spine at war with a rush of anger. "Oh no. Let's be very clear on one thing. I am not _anyone's_ 'toy'. Not property, either."

"I know you're not," she said, levelling her eyes on his. "That's why I'm telling you this. So you can decide for yourself."

"Decide what?" His voice was harsh-edged, but he didn't drop his gaze from hers.

She trailed a finger up his arm. "If you want to make him jealous or not."

John remembered, briefly, the press of her body against his on the dance floor, the taste of her lips. He swallowed and licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "Now who's toying with me?"

"I'm perfectly serious," Irene said, and leaned forward, keeping her eyes on his until their mouths were close enough to touch.

It had been a very long night, exhausting, worrying, and then there was the matter of the interrupted kiss in Sherlock's room, which felt like days ago. He wasn't thinking clearly. As soon as her mouth met his, his lips parted, and this time, so did hers. And that was when it all went wrong. She smelled wrong. And felt wrong. _The sound of a guitar playing him quietly to sleep, music brushing across raw feelings, covering the exposed places until John can close his eyes. The low amused chuckle. _John pulled away reluctantly, apologetically. "I can't. Irene—I'm sorry."

"Why not?"

"You're clever. You can figure out why."

"Tell me anyway."

"Oh—fuck you." John stood up and stalked away. "If you knew, why kiss me?"

"Maybe I wanted to make sure that you knew too."

"You. Jesus _Christ_ what is wrong with you two? What would you have done if I hadn't stopped? Did you think that far ahead?" John's hands worked of their own accord, opening, closing.

"We'd have had a lovely evening and I would have suggested tomorrow that he start looking elsewhere."

"I just need to know, do you two do this sort of thing all the time?"

"Compete?" Irene said, leaning on her hands against the bed. "We've always competed. I wasn't competing over you, though."

"Then what—ohh. Yes. Very clever. You two _are_ a matched pair, aren't you?" John almost laughed but the sound was strangled. "It's another bloody test, isn't it? Did I fucking pass this one too?"

"In as much as you proved conclusively that you find both men and women attractive, but will choose emotional connection over scratching an immediate itch... yes." She looked very... smug. She looked remarkably like Sherlock. "Finding someone who thinks Sherlock's attractive... that's not hard. Finding someone who wants to be with him... also pretty easy. Finding someone who won't screw him over? That's the hard part." She paused, kicking her leg over the edge of the bed, back and forth. "John, he's my best friend. I had to be sure."

"So, what. You're going to ring him with the results?"

"Nope."

John rubbed at the back of his neck, then walked to the room's sole armchair and started pulling it towards the door.

"What are you doing?"

"Well, we've got one bed, and I'm bloody well not sleeping in it next to you. Besides, if I'm in front of the door, no one can get in." He pushed the chair into place and settled into it, grabbing his book on the way. "Good night."

* * *

The next morning, after roughly two hours of sleep and several cups of thankfully excellent coffee, John dropped Irene off at Sherlock's room, essentially exchanging her company for Greg's. It had taken prodding to get her to agree, but he'd finally managed by pointing out that someone had gotten through a locked door the night before for the sole purpose of destroying her belongings—how much worse might it have been if she'd been in the room?

He tried not to think too hard about what the topic of conversation might be between Irene and Sherlock while John was off at the theatre. His back was sore from sleeping—dozing, really—in the chair, and his shoulder was already complaining. He had no energy to worry about what sort of games Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes might get up to with each other. He refused to be a bloody football again.

"You're in a mood this morning," Greg noted.

"Don't ask," John said. "What happened with the sketch artist? You never called."

"That's because we didn't get back to the hotel until nearly three." They walked side by side down the street, both clutching takeaway coffee cups.

"I was still awake."

"Well, there wasn't much to tell. We have a sketch, but not a very good one. We can at least give copies to venue and hotel security, but I don't know if it will do much. Mols said it was too dark to get a good look at the guy. It might not even be him, who knows? Maybe he was flirting with her." Something in his voice made John look over.

"You're more worried about that than you are about Sherlock. That someone flirted with Molly." Suddenly John's morning seemed much brighter.

"Bloody wanker. Of course I'm worried about it. I like her!"

John laughed and gave Greg a shove in the shoulder. "Fuckin' adorable, that's what you are."

"At least I can admit it," Greg said. "Unlike some other people I could mention."

"I know," John said, drawing out the vowel and doing a passable impression of Harry at fourteen. "I wish Donovan and Anderson would just shag and get it over with." The two of them stopped and looked at each other, then cracked up.

"Yes," Greg said between laughs, "because that was exactly what I meant."

* * *

One of the last things Harry had said to John before letting him go face the police the night before was, "I'm going to have to notify Mycroft Holmes. He'll be calling you sometime, soon, I'm certain." Then she paused. "I'm sorry." She wouldn't say anything further before ringing off, except to remind him of his fifth birthday party, when he'd singed off his eyebrows. "I just found the pictures," she'd said. "If you're very nice to me, I won't pass them around."

He was helping Sally set up the merch display when his mobile rang: an unfamiliar number from the UK. "John Watson," he answered.

"Captain Watson, I'm glad to have caught you. This is Mycroft Holmes." The elder Holmes' voice carried the same public school intonation, but higher-pitched and more crisp. John knew a tone of command when he heard it.

"Ah, yes. Harry said you might call." He motioned for Sally to go on setting up without him and walked outside the theatre.

"Yes. I heard about the goings-on last night. How is my brother holding up?"

"He's... fine." No sense in putting it off. John said, "Mr Holmes, given the situation, I'm sure you understand that I'd like to confirm that you are who you say you are."

"Of course. Harriet said you were clever. She also said I should tell you she still has the photographs of you without your eyebrows. Is that sufficient?"

"Y-yeah. We're good." John had not expected to be exchanging codewords again in his life—certainly not this soon. "How can I help you?"

"Captain Watson—"

"John, please."

"John, then. It hasn't escaped my attention that you possess certain skills that might be... useful in this situation. I am asking that you use those skills to keep my brother safe."

"That was my intention, sir."

"To make it easier, you will receive a package by courier in approximately two hours. I would be greatly indebted to you if you would keep the contents of that package on your person at all times."

"What is it?"

"Something to make your new responsibilities a bit easier to manage. Please keep me updated. And—it might be best if Sherlock doesn't learn of this conversation. My brother and I have had our differences through the years, but please understand I have only his best interests at heart."

John smiled thinly "I understand. I have a sister after all."

"Indeed. Two hours, John. I'll be checking in periodically."

He rang off before John could think to ask him how the courier would know where to find him.

* * *

Two hours later, almost to the minute: "John? There's someone here to see you." He turned around to see a smartly dressed young woman standing in the lobby of the theatre. Whatever he was expecting of a courier from Mycroft Holmes, this wasn't it. He walked over to her and she gave him a cool, business-like smile.

"Captain Watson. Will you step outside with me, please?"

John followed her to where an impressively sleek black car sat idling at the kerb. "You have got to be joking." The courier opened the door and gestured for him to enter. "I don't think so," he said.

"Please, Captain Watson. Mr Holmes will be quite cross with me if you don't."

"Christ do I ever not have the time for this nonsense. Just give me whatever he sent, please." John folded his arms and stayed where he was.

"This will go much more quickly if you'll just get in the car." They stared each other down for a few moments, precious moments that John didn't have to waste.

"Fine." He got in the car, and the courier followed after.

The courier handed him a box. "I need you to open this and verify the contents, please."

Certain every moment that he was about to be kidnapped or something equally ridiculous, John opened the box. Inside was a Sig Sauer P226 with extra ammo and, in the bottom of the box, a shoulder holster. A small thrill went up his spine. "A gun. Your boss is serious about this, isn't he?" He raised at eyebrow at the courier, and when she gave the nod, he reached into the box, the plastic grip cool against his hand. The fit was perfect; the weight was reassuring. He checked the safety and tucked the gun into the back of his jeans, untucking his shirt so the tail fell down to cover it. "Right. So Sherlock's brother has sent me a highly illegal undocumented firearm to carry around the country. Remind me, what does he do again?"

"Mr Holmes is a minor member of the British government," she replied smoothly. "And it's not illegal in the slightest. I have the paperwork for you right here." She handed him a folder, which he opened and flipped through.

There was an ID card in the stack. "Wait. This has me listed as a member of MI-6."

"Yes," said the courier.

"Bloody hell. Am I?"

"No," she said, smiling the way one would smile at a well-loved but not terribly bright child.

"Thank Christ." He tucked the card into his wallet and closed the folder. "Is there anything else?"

"Just that Mr Holmes is indebted to you, Captain." The courier swung the door of the car open and slid out, allowing him room to exit.

"Well, uh. Thanks." He climbed out, taking the box holding the ammo and the holster with him.

* * *

By the time Sherlock and Irene arrived for soundcheck, John was fighting back the ragged edge of exhaustion with nothing but adrenaline and caffeine. It wasn't the longest he'd been without sleep, not even close, but it was the longest he'd been without sleep during which time he wasn't also being shot at, which had a tendency to keep one alert. He spent the show in the booth with Greg and Molly again, but this time he didn't even make it through the first song before he dropped off into a doze, the P226 biting into his back.

He couldn't even allow himself to fully relax, as he kept jerking awake to scan the crowd for anything suspicious, even though logic said that whoever had trashed Irene's room would keep a lower profile now. Logic had nothing to do with the tension in his gut, the analytical part of his brain that pointed out exactly how many ways the stage was vulnerable to attack, exactly where a sniper could hide. Finally he gave up trying to chase down a nap, and shoved the stool away, rising to give in to the urge to stand guard.

During the last encore, John leaned over to Greg, speaking in his ear loud enough to be heard over the music. "Do me a favour. Can you take care of things backstage? I don't want to send Sherlock into the crowd to sign autographs alone." Greg just raised an eyebrow "I can't, okay? I know I'm probably overreacting, but what if I'm not? What if that creep is here tonight?" Greg nodded. "Thanks."

John left the booth and went backstage. When Sherlock and Irene came offstage, John was ready for them.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock took a towel from one of the stagehands and wiped his face. "Aren't you supposed to be doing... manager things?" They'd hardly spoken since the night before, and John could see Sherlock was determined to be shirty about it.

"Yes, and tonight one of my 'manager things' is to keep an eye on you. Or more accurately, to keep an eye on the crowd around you." John gestured towards one of the copies of the police sketch hanging backstage. "Irene, are you joining us tonight?" She shook her head. "Right then. We'll be back. Molly should be down to the green room in a few minutes. Stay with her."

"This is ridiculously unnecessary," Sherlock said as they walked through the backstage halls towards the lobby. "No one is going to _attack_ me here."

"Mm," said John. "You expected someone to go after Irene then?" Sherlock didn't answer. "I didn't think so. Until we know who we're dealing with, no strangers are getting close to you without me there. No one's going to get even a chance to hurt you."

"That may be the _sexiest_ bloody thing anyone has ever said to me."

The lobby was crowded as they came through the side door near the merch table. Sally was doing good business; the table was crowded with fans looking for the latest t-shirt or poster. Sherlock's arrival drew attention quickly their way. John took up position behind Sherlock a little to the left, his feet slightly spread, hands resting easily in the small of his back. His face fell into a familiar mask: jaw slightly tensed, head held high and straight on his neck, eyes moving over the crowd. He hoped that his presence, with its obvious, aggressively watchful stance, would deter most forms of trouble.

He could hear Sherlock talking to his fans, but was listening more to the tones of voices than the words, listening for something, anything that sounded off. Sherlock's fans never expected him to be friendly and enthusiastic—they expected sullen and slightly distant, royalty deigning to mix with his subjects. The people who approached him were a nightmare from a security perspective. Each one seemed to have enough hardware pierced through their bodies to be potentially dangerous. He saw several spiked bracelets that gave him a quick image of someone trying to gash Sherlock's throat with one. What the hell was venue security _for_, anyway?

No one seemed to want to _hurt_ Sherlock so far, but all of them wanted to touch him. More than once an overly-excited fan grabbed his arm or his wrist—once or twice hard enough that John saw Sherlock wince—and John would step forward. Usually a step was all it took.

John also discovered the true uselessness of the police sketch. The sketch showed a pale man in his late-teens or early-20s with pale skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. Which matched roughly forty percent of the people in the lobby, eighty if you considered the level of androgyny in the crowd. Hell, it fairly matched _Sherlock_. Molly had said the man wasn't overly tall, so that filtered out a few more people, but there were still too many for John's comfort.

Like that one, there. Third back in line, he was shifting from foot to foot, nervous. The man's (boy's?) eyes darted continually from side to side. He didn't appear to be with anyone, unlike the people around him. The back of John's neck prickled, instinct waking and stretching with an internal growl. He loosened his hands behind him, fingers stretching and wriggling.

One more down. The kid was wearing the usual costume of torn jeans, baggy black t-shirt and a leather jacket several sizes too big for him. The jacket—which if security had been doing their job would be in the coat check—hung oddly, pulled to one side. The way it might if there were a weapon in the pocket. Should he step in now? John waited. The kid reached the front of the line and John zeroed in, listening to every word.

"...loved the new album so much," he gushed. "Can you do something for me? It would mean so much..." He reached toward the weighted-down pocket.

John's hand wrapped around the grip of the pistol.

"Can you sign this for me?" The kid drew out a chunk of John at first thought was concrete, then realised was part of a plaster cast. "I missed your last show because I broke my leg." Sherlock signed the piece of plaster with his usual combination of intensity and feigned ennui, and the kid walked away, never knowing how close he'd come to having a gun drawn on him. _Jesus, Watson. Pull it together._ John relaxed infinitesimally, hands going back to parade rest at his back.

* * *

After load-out, the seven of them walked back to the hotel together in twos and threes. John stayed near Sherlock, still on alert and scanning everyone they passed. When they reached Sherlock's room, Sherlock said, "Greg, you're staying with Irene tonight. Or put her with Molly and Sally. Either way, I don't care."

"What?" John wasn't sure what he was hearing.

"Come on, you're staying with me." Sherlock opened the door and pushed John through it. John could hear laughter from the other side of the door, and someone wolf-whistled.

"It's about bloody time." That sounded like Sally.

When the door closed, John found himself against it with Sherlock staring down at him, eyes darkened with intensity. "You don't mind, do you?" Sherlock said with a small smirk.

"I thought you were angry with me," John said, tone mild and much calmer than he felt.

"I was. Now I'm not." Sherlock pressed his hands to either side of John's head and leaned in closer. "I thought the notes were from you. I thought _you_ were the one flirting with me." Sherlock closed the distance between them with a fierce kiss, one that spiked the second (third?) rush of adrenaline of the night through John's body.

"Now who's the idiot?" John reacted without thinking, snaking one hand up to catch in the hair at the base of Sherlock's scalp. "If I'm flirting with you, you'll know it. I don't play coy. Ever." He tugged softly and was rewarded with a soft gasp. "Like now, for example." He manoeuvred himself away from the wall, using the leverage he had from pulling Sherlock's hair, twisting them about until their positions were switched. He let Sherlock's hair go, instead pinning one lean shoulder to the door, his other hand moving to cup Sherlock's chin. "I've got at least two stone of muscle over you. Did you really think you would be able to just manhandle me in here and have your way with me?"

"No," Sherlock said, turning his head to lick at John's hand. "I thought you'd give in faster than this."

John's hand tightened, forcing Sherlock's mouth away. He had the satisfaction of seeing Sherlock's pupils widen, darken, just as they had that night in the green room, the first time Sherlock had pushed and John had pushed back. He pulled on the shoulder he was holding, bringing Sherlock's ear down to his level. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? You like me because I say 'no'. Because you know I could control you so easily if I wanted to." Then, because he could, John dragged the tip of his tongue along the outer curve of Sherlock's ear and felt him melt against the door.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "God, yes."

"No," John said, and he stepped back, fighting the urge to smile. He watched a range of emotions play across Sherlock's face: confusion, anger, uncertainty. He held his hand out to him. Sherlock let him draw him over to the bed, where John sat down. Sherlock still wore an odd expression. John laughed. "What, no one's wanted to talk to you before?"

"Not... usually."

"I don't want to play your game. I want _you_, Sherlock. Not some mask you wear." He pulled Sherlock down onto his lap, nuzzling at the side of his neck. "_You._ I want the man who played me to sleep." He nipped a pinch of skin between his teeth, making Sherlock gasp. "The one who was honest and talked about how difficult the past few months have been. Show me him again."

Before Sherlock could react, the room phone rang. John growled annoyance and let Sherlock go. He rolled across the bed and answered. There was background chatter, laughing, then Greg said, "Is anyone naked yet?" The background laughter got more uproarious.

"Fuck you," John said.

"Not my job, love. Give Sherlock a kiss for us, eh?" Greg was still giggling when John hung up. He rolled his eyes at Sherlock, who was grinning.

"You might want to take that off the hook," Sherlock said. "They'll never stop calling." John rolled around and reached back behind the nightstand. He unplugged the phone and held the cord up for Sherlock to see. "Even better," Sherlock said. John squirmed around until he was lying properly on his side.

"Come here," he murmured. Sherlock crawled up the bed, settling at his side. John brushed a stray curl from Sherlock's face. "Do you really mean to tell me that nobody has bothered to get to know you?"

"There wasn't much to get to know," Sherlock said. "I was high all the time." It struck John as unutterably sad, and he stroked his fingertips down the side of Sherlock's face before leaning over to kiss him, just once, gently. Then because that didn't seem to be enough, again, lingering. Then nothing seemed to be enough. John pulled Sherlock closer, wrapping his arms around him, kissing with a slow, hungry intensity. He let Sherlock pull the t-shirt away from him, forgetting the weight of the gun still at the small of his back.

"Where the hell did that come from?"

John felt his face heat up as he drew it from the back of his jeans and tucked it into the nightstand drawer. "It just... seemed like it might be necessary."

Sherlock looked a bit... awed. His fingers brushed lightly across the scar tissue on John's shoulder. "You're serious about protecting me."

It didn't hurt, exactly, but John turned slightly away, sliding his hand down Sherlock's chest. "Right now I'm serious about touching you," he said. He unbuttoned the dark grey shirt Sherlock wore, tugging away the shirt, boots, trousers, undressing him so slowly, watching the shifting expressions on his face.

"John," the word was a plea. Sherlock naked was nothing new. Sherlock naked, stretched across a bed and pleading for him, well. That was new. Biting his lower lip, John stripped out of his jeans and pants with quick efficiency.

And heard his mobile ringing.

"Ignore it," said Sherlock. "It's them again, you know it is." John looked over Sherlock's body, and gave over. He crawled back across the bed, settling down with one knee between Sherlock's legs, his right thigh brushing against the swelling length of Sherlock's cock. John sank down against him, giving a small groan at the feeling of skin-to-skin contact from head to toe. Their mouths met, wet and open and wanting. John couldn't stop touching him, couldn't stop running his hands up and down Sherlock's sides, feeling the slightly-too-prominent ribs, coasting over his hipbones and down his thighs.

"I want—John, god. I want—" He wrapped one long leg around John's, trapping him.

John shifted his weight, and slid back, mouthing his way across Sherlock's pale chest to tease a nipple with the tip of his tongue. "What?"

"You. _Everything._ God."

Smiling against Sherlock's skin, John trailed his tongue over pectoral muscles, salt and sweat sparking on his tongue. He wet his left hand with his saliva and reached between them to tease his fingers along the underside of Sherlock's cock, drawing out a low, aching moan from him. John shifted again, lifting his right leg to straddle Sherlock's hips. He wrapped his wet hand around his own cock and around Sherlock's, stroking them together, once, twice, gritting his teeth against the urge to go faster.

He pressed his body down again, drawing his hands up Sherlock's sides. God—god the feeling of his cock against Sherlock's caught between their bodies. He buried his face against Sherlock's neck and bit, flexing his body to create just a little bit of friction.

"Oh my god," Sherlock was breathless. "Do that again." He squirmed under John and after a moment's fumbling, they found a rhythm, hips sliding and twisting together. John couldn't stop kissing: shoulders, neck, mouth. His breath came in small panting heaves as he wrapped his hands under Sherlock's shoulders for better leverage, and rode the motion of their two bodies.

"So fucking good," John murmured, biting at Sherlock's earlobe. "I want to make you come, just like this." Everywhere they touched was growing hot, skin damp and slipperier by the moment. Their hips pressed, teased, their muscles clenched and flexed against each other's bodies. John felt Sherlock's fingers digging into his back and groaned loud enough to echo in the room.

"Oh god," Sherlock's normally smooth baritone was higher pitched, almost a whine. "Please don't stop, like that, oh please." The last word was drawn out and John felt the sudden pulsing of wetness beneath him and whimpered in sympathetic pleasure. He watched Sherlock's face, with its glazed eyes and parted lips, and followed him into the depths, hips jerking, shoulders shaking.

Slowly, gradually, John relaxed against Sherlock, trailing lazy kisses over his chest, listening to the low purr-like rumble of contentment it earned him. "I should move," he said.

"Don't you _dare_," Sherlock said, tightening his arms. "Not yet."

"No, really," John said after a few moments. "We're... sticky." He laughed as Sherlock let him go. A warm damp flannel from the bathroom made short work of clean up—then John's mobile rang again. "Oh for fuck's sake—" John grabbed his jeans to retrieve the phone, looked at it and snapped it open. "Yes. Okay? Happy now?"

Greg laughed. "Good on you, mate. Took you long enough."

"Go the fuck to bed. We're leaving early in the morning." John rang off and looked over at Sherlock, who was wearing a lazy, brilliant smile.

"Come back to bed," he said.


	5. This Circus We're In

_Chapter title is from "Spark", Tori Amos_

* * *

**Chapter 5: This Circus We're In**

Detroit to Chicago, an almost nothing trip—thanks to the miracle of time zones, they would land before they departed. John was faced with a dilemma: Sherlock was scheduled to go tape an interview for a local radio station's breakfast show. John was scheduled to go do his usual job overseeing set up for the show. He couldn't be in both places at once. He mentioned it to Sherlock as they reached cruising altitude and the seatbelt sign flickered off.

"It's the middle of the day," Sherlock said. "I'll have a driver. It'll be _fine._"

John's lips tightened into a white line. "Want to know how many kidnappings and assaults I've seen happen in broad daylight?"

"This isn't a war zone, John."

"It's close enough." John's fingers rapped at the armrest between them, fidgeting. Sherlock had the window seat, so he looked out the window across the aisle.

"Listen to me. I've had creepy fans before. It's part of the job." Sherlock reached over and took his hand, stilling it. "Yes, this one has gone a little farther, but ultimately, he's just another creepy fan."

John shifted in the seat so he was facing Sherlock. "He could be _on this bloody flight_ and we wouldn't know it. He knows your schedule. That's happened before, has it?"

"Well—"

"I didn't think so." John drew his hand away gently. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I don't suppose there's any convincing my sister that you need a driver with security skills, is there?"

Sherlock sniffed and leaned his head back against the headrest. "Two years ago, maybe. Profit margins are too tight these days."

"Well, they'll be a hell of a lot tighter if there's no star on stage," John said.

"Look, there's been no indication that he wants to _hurt_ me."

"Do you read the papers?" John couldn't keep the edge out of his voice. He had been over each worst-case scenario in his mind a hundred times since the first night in Detroit. "That's how it starts. And as soon as you stop living up to whatever fantasy he's got cooked up, he's going to come after you."

Sherlock's hand snaked over to cover his again. "Maybe I won't," he murmured, eyes alight. "I'm very good with fantasies."

"I'm serious, Sherlock." John tried to pull his hand away, but he didn't try that hard. Instead Sherlock drew his hand over and placed it over his own heart.

"So am I. Think we're a mile up yet?"

"A—what?" Then John got the reference. "If we are, it's only going to be for about ten more minutes, so just stop right there." He did take his hand away then, because feeling Sherlock's heart under his palm was more intense than it had any right to be. "Listen. We have to figure this out. I'm not letting you go to the radio station alone."

"_Letting_ me?" The mischief vanished and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "John, the schedule is clear. They're picking me up, I'm going. We're too short-staffed for you to spare anybody, and you most _certainly_ aren't available." They glared at each other for a few moments. "Go on. Who can you spare?"

"Greg—"

"Please. Are you going to play engineer now?"

"Anderson—"

"No, absolutely not. Besides, you can't spare him any more than you can Greg. John, there _isn't anyone available_."

John sat back against his seat with a huff of breath. "Shit."

Sherlock leaned over and breathed in his ear, "You can't protect me all the time."

John closed his eyes, because it was true, you couldn't protect someone all the time, and it was a truth he knew better than anyone.

* * *

Irene decided to go with Sherlock to the radio interview at the last minute, which didn't do much to make John feel better. If anything, now he had two people to worry about. It was impossible not to keep an eye on the clock.

Greg caught him at it. "They'll be fine," he said.

"If they're so much as five bloody minutes late, I'm calling the police."

"And they'll laugh at you," Greg said.

John's mobile rang and he answered it without looking, "Sherlock? You make it there all right?"

"Sherlock's not with you?"

"Uhhh—yes, hello." He made an apologetic gesture at Greg and walked away to take the call somewhere quieter. "He had interview with a local radio station."

"And you let him go alone?"

John ran a hand over his hair and fought the desire to pace. "I'm assuming that you know your brother, Mycroft. He made a sound argument for going without me. And we are staffed pretty tightly."

"Did I make a mistake in trusting you, John?" There was an unmistakable tone of threat veiled deep within that soft voice. "I called this morning to follow up, and you didn't answer. Had you left him alone then, as well?"

John did a quick mental calculation on the time zones and winced. The missed call on his mobile. The one he forgot to check on. For a mad second, John fought the urge to say, _"Why no, I was on top of him at the time."_ He cleared his throat instead. "No. I wasn't able to get to my phone. It was nearly 3am here when you called."

"I see." Mycroft paused and John could hear the hiss of line noise in his ear. "Well. Please inform me when Sherlock is safely back within your care. If for any reason he does not return—"

John heard the threat coming, and his patience snapped. "Look. I get it. You're powerful. I appreciate that you care about your brother. But Sherlock is an adult, and he's even surprisingly rational at times." When Mycroft didn't immediately answer—John had probably stunned him into silence—he continued, "Look, I'm going to assume you've never done this sort of work before."

"I'm familiar with it."

"Forgive me for saying, that's not at all the same thing. I _have_. You know your brother. How do you think he would react if I started forbidding him to do things? Hm?"

No answer.

"He'd do it anyway. Without telling me. _This_ way? I know where he is. I know who he's with. I know when he's supposed to be back. And he trusts me enough to tell me his plans."

Finally Mycroft spoke. "You sound as if you have a personal stake in this."

"When I've been assigned—or asked—to protect someone, I _always_ have a personal stake in it."

"Well." It was as much a sigh as a word. John recognised surrender when he heard it. "I'll leave you to it then. Good evening, John." He rang off, leaving John rankled and glaring at his mobile.

"Who was that?" Greg asked as John rejoined him.

"One of Harry's lot. Had some questions about the accounting." John lied without a second thought.

"Right." Greg studied John for a moment, and John looked back. "All right then?"

"It is now, yeah."

John kept his eyes on the clock, and it was the longest hour and a half of his life. Sherlock and Irene came back to the theatre with a few minutes to spare, just in time for soundcheck. They didn't touch, but Sherlock stood at his shoulder and gave him a smile that made his insides lurch. _Yeah. I definitely have a personal stake in this one._

* * *

Sherlock hated layovers. As they made their way west, the flights got longer and longer. This one left them stranded somewhere in the middle of the United States. Just long enough to be incredibly dull, but just short enough to keep them from leaving the airport. They scattered in groups, leaving Greg and Molly to stay with the carry-ons at the gate. Sherlock said he needed coffee, and of course John followed him. Sherlock had had one destination on his mind since the plane touched down, but it had nothing to do with overpriced beverages. It had been nearly a week since Detroit, a week of shows every night and travelling nearly everyday. John looked as if he were standing only by the grace of caffeine and years worth of military discipline. For the past three nights, bed had only been for sleep and not much else, not nearly enough of anything at all.

As they passed a lavatory, Sherlock leaned down and whispered in John's ear, "Follow me," then licked at his earlobe. He walked into the lavatory and closed himself in the farthest cubicle.

A few moments later, he heard John's footsteps, uncharacteristically hesitant. Sherlock cracked the door to indicate where he was. When John appeared through the crack in the door, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him in, shutting the door behind him.

"Sherlock, what the hell—"

Too much talking. Sherlock pressed John up against the side of the cubicle and covered that maddening mouth with his own, parting John's lips with his tongue even as he slid his hand along the front of John's jeans. He could feel John tense, and knew he was about to start talking. Sherlock even knew exactly what John would say, if Sherlock let him: "We can't do this here, are you mad? You're going to get us arrested."

The trick was to make John stop thinking, and quickly. He kissed and bit and licked at John's mouth until he could feel John's cock getting hard under his teasing hand. While his hands unhooked John's belt and made short work of his flies, Sherlock's mouth moved over along the stubble on John's jawline, leaving a hot, wet trail before pressing against John's ear. "I'm going to suck you off," he murmured, deliberately keeping his voice low and dark, because it made John squirm. John opened his mouth to respond, and Sherlock—having successfully opened John's trousers—covered his mouth with one hand. He drew back to shake his head at John, who was trying to glare at him. Trying, but failing. The effect was spoilt by the heat in his eyes. As soon as Sherlock drew out John's cock and wrapped his fingers around the base of it, Sherlock felt the tension leave John's face a second before his eyes fluttered closed. Sherlock drew his hand away from John's mouth, which dropped open as John tried to breathe as softly as possible.

Sherlock drew down into a fluid crouch, knees spread to either side of John's legs. He looked up at John—who had his head tilted back, mouth open—and raw, urgent need sank its claws into him. He tightened his hand around John's cock and leaned forward to brush the tip of his tongue along the underside of the glans, moving in a slow stroke up and over, breathing lightly against the overheated, wet skin. Footsteps echoed against the tile outside and Sherlock froze. Were their feet visible? He glanced up at John to find him with eyes wide open, and incredibly, a hint of a grin. Their eyes met and Sherlock leaned forward again to stroke John's cock with his tongue, daring him to keep silent. John's response was to close his hand over the back of Sherlock's head.

He wrapped his mouth around the head of John's cock and had to stifle a groan. Sherlock took John in until his mouth met his hand, feeling the plush skin slick with saliva. God, the taste was so perfect, the same John-ness Sherlock could taste on a shoulder or his neck but combined with musk and heat and salt. Sherlock wanted to take his time, but the risk of discovery was getting higher every moment.

He held still for a moment, long enough for another set of footsteps to pass by outside. Just as Sherlock started to gently suck, John's fingers tangled in his hair. John didn't push his way deeper into Sherlock's mouth or try to guide him at all, he simply held on, combing his fingers against Sherlock's scalp. It gave Sherlock goosebumps.

John was looking down at him now, teeth worrying at his lip so hard Sherlock thought he might draw blood. Sherlock pulled slowly off and gave another slow lick over the glans, keeping his eyes on John's face to make sure he was watching. The dark, hooded look he saw made Sherlock shiver at the hunger there.

Sherlock worked at John's cock with both hands and his mouth, teasing, fast then slow, firm then gentle, until John did finally use the hand tangled in Sherlock's hair to take some control. In a matter of minutes, John was fucking his mouth. He moved his hands to close around John's thrusting hips to simply hold on. It was maddening: the ache in his thighs from crouching; the ache in his cock, rigid and trapped in his jeans. Most maddening of all was the sight of John with clenched teeth, utterly silent. Sherlock felt the spike in tension, then the jump of John's cock as split second before he started to come. Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't suppress a soft moan as the taste of John filled his mouth. John never made a sound.

As Sherlock pulled away and swallowed, John grabbed him by the arms and hauled him to his feet to kiss him and oh god, Sherlock realised John was tasting himself in Sherlock's mouth and he had to bite back a whimper—he'd already made enough noise to alert one of the other travellers. John let go and refastened his trousers, still kissing him. Then he left the cubicle, leaving Sherlock to follow a few moments later, after breathing deep and thinking of cold showers.

As they caught up to each other outside in the corridor, John grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him down to whisper, "You're going to pay for that later."

"God, I hope so. Now. Coffee?" They smiled at each other and went to find the kiosk.

* * *

"Greg, can you hear that out there?" Anderson and John were on the stage in St. Louis setting up equipment while Greg was in the booth. There was a low hum from one of the amps.

Greg sighed over the PA. "Yeah. Damn it."

"The wiring's shit, Greg," Anderson said, addressing the vast space of the auditorium. "This is gonna be a fucking nightmare."

"Can you work around it?" Greg asked.

"Maybe. I'll be able to tell more during soundcheck."

"That's cutting it a little fine," John said. "What's going on? Tell me in small words."

"Bad grounding," Greg said. "Sort of like radio static. Should be able to track it down, but..."

"But what? What's the worst that can happen here?" This was not what John needed in an already packed day.

Anderson scratched at the back of his head, "Electrocution's always the worst it can get, but hardly likely."

"Reassuring," John said. "What else?"

"Aside from the hum? If we can't track it down, Sherlock might get a spark or two off the mic."

Greg sighed. "He'll bitch for a week."

"Right. So get it sorted, both of you. Yeah?" John left them to it, adding it to his mental checklist of things to keep track of.

By soundcheck the problem was more evident than ever. Even John could hear the buzzing in the amps. Every time Sherlock got too close to the mic he jumped back with a curse. Finally he stormed off the stage. Irene looked at John and shrugged. "Take a break," he told her, and trotted off after Sherlock. When he caught up to him in the green room, Sherlock said, "How fucking difficult is it to plug in wires? Greg needs to get his shit together, or I'm not performing tonight."

"Just—breathe, okay? We'll take care of it." John went back out to the stage to find Greg and Anderson wrestling with wires and outlets and saying something about a groundlift—none of it made sense to John.

"He sulking?" asked Greg.

"Threatening to cancel," John said.

"We'll get it. It'll be fine."

It was fine—eventually—but they lost nearly an hour to the problem. Sherlock was standing in the wings, leaning against a wall with his hands in his pockets watching them work. When Greg finally waved him over, he pulled his hands from his pockets and slouched towards them. "I'm not touching that mic again until one of you does."

Greg rolled his eyes, but took Sherlock's place on the stage, one hand on the guitar strings, the other poised to grab the microphone. He paused for just a moment, then closed his hand. "See? It's fine."

Sherlock sniffed then resumed his place. "John, if I die, make sure someone tells my brother my last thoughts weren't of him."

* * *

There was an extra excitement in the audience tonight, even John could feel it. He tried to maintain his usual vigilance, scanning the crowd for any sign of trouble, but oh god. Sherlock was playing with his image again. Instead of haughty and remote and just a little bit untouchable, tonight he looked positively raunchy. Leather trousers—of course—but this pair so ungodly tight they clung to his narrow hips as if in desperation. They were low-slung, giving John—along with everyone else who'd cared to look—a glimpse of the tops of Sherlock's hipbones, enough to know there was nothing underneath the leather.

The simple black vest Sherlock wore was just a few centimetres too short, leaving a strip of pale flesh visible over his stomach. Over it, a ratty jumper: off-white in an uneven open knit, riddled with runs and dropped stitches, and hanging limply off his shoulders. It, too, was much too short, barely falling to Sherlock's midriff. And over everything, a battered dusty black leather jacket so faded it was nearly grey. He looked dirty and vulnerable, and it was going straight to John's cock.

The current song was low and trance-like, with a hypnotic bass line and open, hollow harmonies filling the spaces around Sherlock's voice. He hardly touched the keyboards in front of him except to make adjustments here and there, instead wrapping both long slender hands around the microphone and tilting it to his mouth. The lyrics were simple, sometimes nothing more than a low, wailing moan that John could imagine in a very different context.

He was having trouble breathing. Then Sherlock started sliding his hands along the length of the microphone in an unmistakable and familiar gesture. John had to look away for a moment. He could hear Greg cursing under his breath.

"Goddamn it, Sherlock. Don't you dare. Not after this afternoon."

John looked back to see Sherlock in profile, pausing between lyrics. As he watched, Sherlock's tongue stroked a long, slow, very thorough path up and around the head of the microphone. A ripple of screaming and catcalling went through the audience and John's fingers tightened on the railing surrounding the booth. He fought to keep his face neutral.

"Bloody fucking hell," Greg said. "How many times have I told him, Molly? How many? And after all the problems we had with the grounding earlier. That fuck. I've half a mind to send _him_ out there with the bloody toothbrush and the bottle of Listerine to scrub that bastard down. Is it so difficult to understand? 'Don't lick the goddamn microphones, Sherlock.' Well I fucking hope it shocked his fucking arse!" He stopped to take a breath. "John, can you have a talk with him?"

"Mm?" John felt like he was underwater.

"I said can you—oh hell. Never mind."

John took a breath like he'd just breached the surface. "No, no, it's fine. What? You want him to not do that anymore?"

Greg gave him a wry face. "Not with the microphones, anyway."

"Right, I—right. I'll mention it." John was flushed and sweating all over. How was he supposed to react when Sherlock just demonstrated to thousands of people exactly how he gave a blow job?

* * *

"Sherlock, what in the bloody _fuck_ were you doing up there tonight?" Greg demanded. Load-out finished, no one ready to go to bed yet, everyone was sprawled in John and Sherlock's room—and it was theirs, John thought. There wasn't any question anymore of room assignments. In fact, it was a little disconcerting just how quickly the group had started thinking of the two of them as a unit. Barely a week out of Detroit, and they were already John-and-Sherlock, or Sherlock-and-John.

John sitting with his back to the headboard of the bed, Sherlock sprawled beside him, leaning against his shoulder. Sherlock rolled his head against John's shoulder to look at Greg. "I thought I was giving a damn good performance. What did you think I was doing?"

"Oh I don't know. Trying to get yourself killed?" Greg stubbed out his cigarette. "Licking a live mic—not smart on the best of days, but when half the fucking equipment is groundlifted? What the fuck, man?"

Irene looked up from the conversation she was having with Molly. "He was showing off is what he was doing. John knows, don't you?"

"I don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about." John looked Irene dead in the eye as he said it.

"Oh?" The gleam her eye was predatory. "That little move didn't look at all familiar then?"

"No, I'm fairly certain I hadn't seen Sherlock lick a microphone before tonight." John felt the attention in the room shifting back and forth between the two of them like spectators at a tennis match. "Wasn't bad to watch though, I'll say that much."

Sherlock grinned up at him, looking nearly as shark-like as Irene. "I don't think Irene was talking about micr—"

"Hush." John kissed him once to shut him up, to the glee of the spectators. He turned to say something to Irene but found his mouth redirected back to Sherlock's for a longer, more thorough kiss.

"Annnd, I think that's our cue to get out," said Sally, shoving up from the floor.

"No, it's okay," John said.

"No it's not," Sherlock said. "Get out."

"Sherlock." John tried not to laugh. "Stop it."

He didn't. "Unless you want to see us both naked in about five minutes, get out."

Four people stood up and started gathering shoes and empty bottles. Four people filed out. One didn't. "What if I want to see?" Irene, of course.

"Oh please, you've seen it all before," Sherlock said, pulling himself to a sitting position.

"I wasn't talking about you, Junior."

John was uncurling himself from Sherlock and found himself grabbed and dragged halfway across Sherlock's lap. "He's mine. I'm not sharing him. Go find your own."

"Do I get a say in this?" asked John, grinning.

"No," Irene and Sherlock said simultaneously.

"Christ, you two are scary."

"Good night, Irene," Sherlock said, looking pointedly from her to the door.

Irene laughed and stood up. "Fine, fine. Good night, boys. Try to get _some_ sleep, okay?" She closed the door behind her.

John looked up at Sherlock and shifted to a more comfortable position. "I'm yours, am I?"

"Mm. You didn't know that?" He smiled down at John, trailing fingers along his scalp.

"Are you always so possessive?" John closed his eyes, Sherlock's hand sending drowsiness and warmth running along his nerve endings.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed him on the temple, then over one cheekbone. "Only with the things I really want to keep."

* * *

The cities were starting to blur together, as they always did after a few weeks on the road. Today was... Seattle? It was rare free afternoon. Greg, Molly, and Irene had gone to see the Space Needle. Sherlock was getting restless. He watched John as he sat at the room's desk, making lists of security measures. "We haven't heard anything new in over a week," he said. "Why are you still worried?"

"Because stalkers don't just stop," John said. "They wait."

"You've done this before."

"Hm?" John didn't look up, his brow furrowed.

"Bodyguarding."

John wrinkled his nose. "Close protection, yes."

Sherlock sprawled across the bed on his stomach, grinning up at John. "Does this make you my bodyguard then?" He dropped his voice to a purr. "God, that's sexy."

He had the satisfaction of seeing John's left hand—the one holding the pen—pause; he could see the hint of a tremor. "It's really not. It's not something I should be doing alone, either." John rubbed at his forehead, still looking at the papers on the desk. "If I were doing this the right way, someone would be checking out everywhere you go before you get there, someone doing background checks on the people you might come in contact with... so no. What I'm doing is... _not enough_. But you're stuck with me."

Sherlock slipped off the bed and and stood behind John, sliding one hand up into his hair and resting the other on his shoulder. "I still think it's sexy."

John looked up at him over his shoulder and gave him a wry grin. "If I were a rubbish collector, you'd think it was sexy."

"Mm." Sherlock leaned down to kiss him. "No. You, yes. Your job, no."

"Speaking of my job..." John tried to turn back to the plans on the desk. Sherlock ran his fingers up through the short sandy strands of John's hair. When John leaned back against his hand appreciatively—still trying to focus on work—Sherlock crouched beside the chair.

"Surely you can take a small break," he breathed into John's ear. "I won't tell anyone." Sherlock knew he had him the instant John's eyes closed. He leaned in and traced the tip of his tongue on a long trail up the side of John's neck, from the collar of his t-shirt all the way to his ear.

"God—" John grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him into his lap, making the hotel chair creak alarmingly. Sherlock ignored the risk to the furniture in favour of letting John hold him tight and rake his teeth over Sherlock's collarbones. "Naked. Now." The command in his voice made the edges of Sherlock's thoughts go fuzzy. At first he tried to pull off his dressing gown while sitting down, then gave up and stood. John just watched him, fingers curling over the arms of the chair until his knuckles went white. Sherlock tugged away his shirt, and shimmied out of his soft trousers, tugging them down over his hardening cock, leaving him naked, as ordered.

John wet his lips but made no move toward him. "All right," he said. "Now go lie down. On your back." Sherlock reached for him to draw him along, but John shook his head. "I'll be there in a bit." The bed was a mess anyway, so Sherlock pushed the blankets back before crawling across the sheets to lie down. He ran his hands over the sides of his body, across the tops of his thighs, staring at John, willing him to come closer. John just sat where he was, watching him. As his right hand brushed against his cock, John said, "No. Not yet." There was a soft 'zip' as John unfastened his jeans, still sitting. He opened them enough to reach into his pants and start stroking his cock, slowly.

"John, please—" Sherlock tried to sound less breathless than he was. At that, John stood and pushed jeans and pants down in a single motion, kicking them off his feet.

"Please what?" said John. That smile shouldn't have been legal. Sherlock clutched at the sheets and he fought to keep from arching his hips. "What?" John moved towards the bed and leaned over it on his knuckles, his face just inches from Sherlock's. "Do you want me to tell you what I'm going to do to you?"

"Yes." It came out in a long sibilant. Fuck, his cock was so hard and John had barely even touched him yet.

"Good. Very good." There were crinkles around John's eyes when he smiled. "First, you're going to tell me where you keep your lube and your condoms, because I just _know_ you came on this trip prepared."

_Oh god._ Sherlock cleared his throat. "Shaving kit. Bathroom. But—" They hadn't really talked about likes and dislikes—it was easy to make assumptions—

"Hold on." John leaned down like he was doing push-ups on the bed and licked at Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock was distracted by the sight of John's biceps tensing beneath his skin. Then John pulled away, and came back a few seconds later. "Now," John leaned back over him, his eyes gleaming. "Now you're going to put the lube on your fingers," he lowered his mouth to Sherlock's ear, breath hot against his skin, "and you're going get me ready to ride you until you can't see straight."

"_John._ Yes. Fuck, yes." It wasn't what he had expected to hear, but it was exactly what he'd wanted to hear. His hands were shaking as he tried to follow John's directions—_be honest, call them orders_—and he nearly dropped the bottle handed to him. As he covered his fingers in lube, John crawled over him, licking all the way from his belly to his chin before reaching his mouth. Sherlock reached out to wrap one slick hand around John's cock; John, just crouched over him on his hands and knees, barely touching him at all, just where their mouths met, and where Sherlock's hand pulled and stroked him.

"Inside me," John hissed against his mouth and closed one hand into a fist in Sherlock's hair. "Do it." Sherlock shuddered and trailed one finger along John's perineum, circling and teasing at the edges of his entrance. John pressed against his hand, but Sherlock pulled away. He was rewarded with a tug at his hair and a nip at his jawline. "Sherlock, fuck me or I'm going back to the paperwork." Sherlock teased one finger slowly into John, feeling the muscle relax slowly around him, the heat of John's body. John growled against his jaw and bit his ear. "Two."

Sherlock swallowed a whimper. "You're quite the surprise. I wouldn't have thought—" He eased a second finger in, causing John to arch his back and press against his hand.

"What?" John looked down at him with a smirk. "Thought you—oh Christ, that's good, faster—thought you had me figured out the first day. Fuck. More, give me more." Sherlock added a third finger then, wriggling it in until John relaxed. Sherlock, aching and ready, watched John's expressions, waiting for the words. Finally John pulled off his hand and reached across the bed for the condom. He slid down, licking along the shaft of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock groaned and arched against John's mouth, but John pinned him down with one hand while with the other he slowly unrolled the latex down over his straining cock. "Be still," John murmured. Sherlock fought to obey as John let him go to cover the fingers of one hand with lube, then wrap those cool, slick fingers around Sherlock's cock. Straddling him, John batted away Sherlock's hands when he tried to help line himself up, and suspended himself with the tip of Sherlock's cock pressed against his entrance.

"John—please."

"Don't _move_," he growled. Using his thigh muscles—Sherlock didn't think he'd ever get enough of watching those muscles work—John eased Sherlock into him, unsuccessfully stifling a small moan. John leaned over him again and pinned Sherlock's wrists to the bed. Sherlock's hips twitched; he wanted desperately to buck, to arch against the restraint around his wrists, to feel John's strength keeping him still. He tugged at his arms, and John responded by tightening his hands. It almost hurt, not quite, but enough.

He watched the sinuous movement as John kept his promise, hips rolling and working tight around Sherlock's cock. Gasping, he managed to tear his gaze away from John's belly to look in his eyes. Those eyes—gorgeous, grey-blue, blazing—pinned him as surely as John's hands at his wrists. "Wanted this," John breathed, "for days." John twined his fingers with Sherlock's, and pushed their arms up the bed until they were face-to-face. "Ever since—God. Your mouth—" He licked at it, making Sherlock's hips snap involuntarily. "Oh fuck, do that again," John said, breaking away from Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock did, thrusting up to meet him.

Sherlock was gratified to see John falling apart: his breathing fast and soft, punctuated by low groans, words gone, eyes glazing. He wanted to close his own eyes, to focus on the tense pleasure slowly sparking through his body, but he couldn't look away. John let go of his right hand to fist around his cock, loose and fast. "_Harder_," was all John could manage, and it was enough, more than enough. Sherlock pulled free of John's other hand and wrapped his fingers around John's hips, using the extra leverage to slam into him until John cried out and came in arcing spurts over Sherlock's belly. John's body gripping and squeezing him with each spasm made it impossible for him to hold out any longer. He arched his back and exploded, starbursts behind his eyes and electricity sparking down to his toes. Sherlock gave a last thrust or two then collapsed back against the bed, pulling John down with him.

They lay together for a few moments, long enough for Sherlock to soften and slip from John's body. John rolled away and cleaned them both up, then came back to pull Sherlock into his arms with a tired but wicked grin. "Should I make you start calling me 'Captain'?"

"Shut up." He laid his head on John's good shoulder. "You seemed to miss giving orders."

John rolled his head over to kiss Sherlock's forehead, "Didn't expect you to be so good at taking them." Sherlock chuckled, and John joined in, the sound threatening to turn into giggles. John tightened his arms. "You're amazing. You do know that, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sherlock echoed his tone and accent with a smile. "Glad to hear you think so, though. Even if you don't like my music."

"Who says that I don't? You're bloody talented."

"Yes, but that's different than you _liking_ it," Sherlock said. "What music _do_ you like? You never say." Why hadn't he thought to ask that before?

John shifted against him, reaching down to pull blankets up over them two of them. "You'll laugh."

"I won't, I promise." A thought occurred to Sherlock, sudden and horrible. "Oh god. You're a Britney fan, aren't you."

"_No_," John laughed, poking him in the side. "Give me some credit." He was quiet a moment, and Sherlock focused on the feel of his breathing. "No, I've always had a soft spot for the older stuff. R&B, Motown. My parents had a record collection." He chuckled, and Sherlock felt the vibration of the sound against his ribs, like feeling a cat purring in contentment. John continued, "When you came out with 'Mustang Sally' during soundcheck, I nearly fell over in surprise."

"Ah," Sherlock said. "I should have guessed. Who's your favourite?"

"Aretha."

"Of course." Sherlock did a quick scan of his memory of lyrics, and came up with the one he wanted. He sang, low and soft, "_I can't sleep at night, I can't eat a bite; I guess I'll never be free since you got your hooks in me..._"

"Now how do you know _that_ song?" John demanded.

"Your parents weren't the only ones with a record collection." He turned to nuzzle against John's skin. "That one seemed appropriate."

John turned on his side so they were face to face, surrounded by the warmth of the blankets, breathing each other's breath. He was smiling. "Are you trying to say I'm a no-good heart breaker?"

"No." Sherlock paused, almost hesitant. "But... I'm starting to think the rest might be startlingly relevant." He watched John's face to see if he understood. He did, after a moment, the realisation dawning across his face with slow warmth. John closed the small distance between them and kissed him, slow and deep and lazy.

"You know, normal people would just say it," John said. He pressed his forehead to Sherlock's and murmured, "I love you too, you git."

* * *

"Hold up," Molly called after John as he crossed the lobby of the theatre in San Francisco. She looked frazzled, but then, everyone was reaching the point of exhaustion.

"Hey, Molly."

"John, I need your help. Some of the rigging—it's just... It doesn't look right. I can't get house staff to take me seriously on it. They say it was just inspected and it's fine."

"But you don't think it is?"

Molly shook her head. "Have you looked at this place? The stage is slanted, the seats are a wreck—I don't even want to _think_ about the wiring—"

"Right," said John. "Let's go find out who we need to talk to then."

* * *

Sherlock leaned against the sound console. "Are we going to get the reverb right this time?"

"Move your arse off my board," Greg said, giving him a shove to the hip. "And yes, I'll get your precious reverb right." He paused for a moment. "Sherlock, I gotta ask."

Sherlock settled back against the console and folded his arms. "Oh god." He'd seen Greg in nearly every situation: drunk, asleep, sick, happy—Sherlock wasn't sure he'd ever seen him look quite this discomfited before. "What is it?"

Greg paid very close attention to a few of the levers on the sound board. "Well, you know me, I'm not opposed to having a bit of fun on the road—"

"Yes you are, you turned me down three times last tour alone."

Greg ruffled his hair with one hand and leaned back. "Jesus, are you still sulking over that? Sherlock, I'm straight."

One corner of Sherlock's mouth threatened a smirk. "You're too pretty to be straight. You're wasted on women."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, thankfully, not all of them agree with you." Greg paused again, then took a breath. "This thing with John. Are you just having a bit of fun?"

The smirk blossomed. "I'm having rather a lot of fun, actually."

Greg smacked him in the arm. "Twat. You know what I mean. Are you just playing with him?"

"You mean am I planning to heartlessly abandon him for the next unbelievably hot ex-soldier who turns up and wants to be my bodyguard?"

"...was that a yes?"

Sherlock unfolded his arms and leaned back against his hands "Prick. How idiotic do you think I am?" Greg just arched an eyebrow. "Oh, fuck you." Sherlock sighed and tapped his fingers in a rapid staccato against the console behind him. "I haven't met anyone like him before."

"Sherlock Holmes. Are you _mooning_?" Greg grinned up at him, and Sherlock had to smile back. "I thought you didn't like good guys."

"He _is_ good," Sherlock agreed, "but he's certainly not _boring_."

"Just be careful, yeah? You know how it is out here. Shit gets intense, fast."

"I rather think it already has." He looked down at the stage, where John and Irene were deep in conversation. He made an amused sound. "Do you think they're having the same conversation down there?"

* * *

"You're good for him," Irene said.

"Oh god, do we have to have this talk now?" John said. "I've got about thirty things to do in the next twenty-five minutes." They were just to stage left, where John was looking up trying to spot the problem Molly had seen in the lighting rig. Useless, of course, he didn't even know where to _look_.

"Fine." Irene smiled. "But you are."

John shaded his eyes to get a clearer look. "Is this the part where you threaten to come after me if I break his heart?"

"Hell, no. I'll come after him if he breaks _yours_."

John looked over at her and grinned. "It's nice to have someone on my—" His words were cut off by a loud crack from overhead. John looked up again just in time to see a large chunk of metal support swing free and come arcing towards them, carrying several heavy stage lights. The space between heartbeats became minutes as John reached for Irene, grabbed her by the arms and tried to pull her from the scaffolding's path.

_Close. So close. Too slow._

He felt more than heard the thud of the metal against the back of Irene's head as he pulled them to the stage floor. He heard shouting, but it was lost in the roaring crash of breaking glass and screaming metal. Shards of glass arced across the stage in slow motion, and John curved across Irene to keep them from reaching her. He was aware of someone yelling his name, someone else yelling for Irene.

He could feel the slow movement of Irene's breath against his cheek, but her eyes were closed and there was a lot of blood. He felt for her pulse. Steady.

Time snapped back into focus. As he gently tilted Irene's head back—airway—John saw stagehands stamping out sparks and Molly, pale enough to faint at the foot of the stage. "Shut up. Everyone _shut up_!" he yelled. "Molly. The green room. Get my bag." She took a gasping breath and nodded. He pointed at Anderson. "You. 999. Or whatever it bloody is here."

"John?" Sherlock had taken Molly's place by the stage.

"No—don't come up. There's broken glass everywhere." When Sherlock started to vault on to the stage anyway, he snapped, "_Stop._ She'll be okay. It won't fucking help if you get hurt too."

His quick assessment showed that the scalp wound from the scaffolding was the most visible problem. He squeezed her shoulder carefully and leaned over. "Irene?" There wasn't much, a flutter of her eyelids, but it was enough. Spinal injury? Probably not. Neck injury? Possibly. He sucked in air through his teeth and saw Molly bringing the knapsack he kept with him at all times. At first it had just held his own—slightly enhanced—first aid kit. Now, of course, it also held the shoulder holster and some of the extra ammunition for the gun tucked at his back.

Penlight. John checked Irene's pupils. _Responsive, good_. He worked to stop the bleeding, everything around him fading to background noise except for that slight touch of situational awareness, alert to anything that might be a threat to him or the person he was treating. He could hear Anderson on the phone narrating to the operator what John was doing, but it was information that barely registered. After a few moments, Irene's eyelids fluttered again, and her eyes opened.

"Stay still," John murmured. "You're okay. You just got hit in the head. Help will be here soon." Technically, help was already there, but his supplies didn't allow for anything more than the basics. "Are you dizzy? Pain or numbness anywhere besides your head?"

"No—no, it's..." Her words were a little fuzzy, but coherent. "What happened?"

"Lights fell on us. Now, shh. Just lie still." He pulled off his jacket and pillowed it under her head and shoulders, elevating them slightly.

By the time the paramedics arrived Irene was fully awake and getting irritable. "John, don't let them take me to the hospital. I'm fine."

"Irene, you took a metal pole the size of my wrist to the side of your head. You need x-rays and monitoring. You're going to hospital." John stayed by her while the paramedics did their job—not quite efficiently enough, to his eyes. Civilian. Lazy and sloppy. The second time he growled in frustration, Greg took his arm. "Easy, mate. They're fine." By the time she was loaded on the stretcher and ready to go, the rest of the crew stood around watching.

"Anyone coming with her?" asked one of the paramedics.

"I will," said Sally. She looked at John. "You can't. You've got enough of a mess to deal with here." He didn't like it, but she wasn't wrong.

"Fine. Call me." He gave Irene's hand a squeeze and kissed the back of it. "You'll be all right, love. It's probably just a little concussion."

She smiled. "Whatever you say, doctor."

* * *

"I'll call Harry if I have to," John said. "She'll tell you the same."

"I know..." Sherlock made a frustrated sound. "I just hate—"

"You're not going on. There's no way they'll get the stage clear and the lighting rig fixed in two hours."

"Irene's going to give me hell for cancelling," Sherlock said. The two of them were headed back to the hotel room and then—as far as Sherlock was concerned—going straight to Irene's bedside.

"She'll get over it."

Sherlock unlocked the room door while John pulled out his mobile, probably to call Harry anyway. As the door swung open, it caught on a piece of paper. With a stone of dread sitting in his stomach, Sherlock picked it up to see familiar spiky handwriting:

_Dearest,_

_I see you've given over the American whore and traded up. But really, love. A toy soldier? Having a bit of rough on the side is one thing, but don't keep him around afterwards. I'm willing to fix things for you, as always. By the time you read this, they should no longer be a problem._

_And then we can finally reunite. I'll see you soon._

_-J_

Sherlock read it, read it again. "John."

He came over and looked around Sherlock's shoulder at the note. "Oh god." The warm pressure of John's hand at his back steadied him. "Is he saying what I think—?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I think, yes."

"Not an accident, then."

"It seems not." He leaned against John and said nothing.

John's voice was dark and gravelled. "Now do you believe that he's serious? That he's a danger to you?"

Sherlock pulled away to look at him. "Me? I'm not the one he dropped a lighting rig on. John—he—you—" He couldn't force the words out. _He nearly killed you and Irene._

John shook his head and pointed at the note. "Read it again. I'm an obstacle. You're the bloody target. He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants. We have to call the police."

"Oh, what for. They won't do anything. They didn't the last time." Sherlock fought the urge to tear the note to bits, pretend it never appeared.

"We have to at least tell them."

Sherlock carefully refolded the note along its original lines and tucked into a hotel envelope. "Fine. But tell them to meet us at the hospital."


	6. Snakebite

John woke up sweating, his pulse thudding in his chest and in his temples. Had he yelled? Sherlock was still asleep next to him, curled against his side and wrapped around him like ivy. A glance at the clock told him it was half four in the morning. They hadn't been asleep long, just long enough for John to hit the first REM stage of the night.

By the time they had finished at the hospital, by the time the police had taken their statements—and Sherlock was right, there wasn't much they could do—it was past midnight. Irene had a mild concussion and was expected to be fine. Several people had congratulated John, saying it would have been much worse without his help. It left him with a sour stomach.

He eased slowly from the tangle of Sherlock's arms and legs, not wanting to wake him. Greg and the others had reassured him that Sherlock was sleeping much more regularly on this tour than times past, but he still didn't sleep enough. John didn't turn on a light, but moved over to the window and opened the drapes enough so he could look outside. Seattle was cold and wet, a mixture of rain and sleet ticking against the hotel glass. John leaned his flushed face against the cold surface. His shoulder ached, possibly with the weather, a hint of things to come as he got older.

The nightmare was coming back to him gradually, in pieces. Mostly it was the same as ever: trapped on that last mission with his squadron, scene replaying over and over. Of late, the face of the body on the ground—the one bleeding out under his hands—was changing. Five days ago it had been Greg. The two nights ago it was Molly. Tonight it was Irene, dying under his hands while he was helpless to stop it. It didn't take a psychiatrist to see where his subconscious was taking him. As exhausted as he was, sleep offered no rest.

He heard the sound of Sherlock's skin against the sheets. "...John?" His voice was muzzy with sleep.

"I'm here. Go back to sleep."

"What's wrong?"

John watched the liquid trailing down the windows. "Nothing. I just couldn't sleep."

"Well, come not sleep over here." Sherlock's voice was edging towards petulant, and it was almost enough to make John smile. He pulled the curtains open so he could watch the rain before going to crawl back into the bed beside Sherlock, who snuggled against his back and pulled him back into the cradle of his limbs.

"Better," Sherlock mumbled against John's back. John listened to the quiet sounds of sleet. "John? Was it a nightmare again?"

"Mm. It's fine."

"You'd say that even if it weren't, wouldn't you?" Sherlock kissed his aching shoulder. "Want to tell me about it? It must have been bad, you've been sweating." John didn't answer and debated feigning sleep. "John, I know you're awake. Tell me."

"I can't." It was effort to say even that much.

"Then at least look at me."

Sherlock sounded more alert, and that low, coaxing tone of voice was nearly impossible for John to resist. He rolled over and tucked one hand under his head, letting the other drape over Sherlock's side.

"Bad?" Sherlock said.

"Yeah." One syllable words, he could do that much. He could feel the weight of Sherlock's gaze sliding over his face.

"Will you tell me what happened? I don't mean the dreams. What happened to you?"

"It was a—" John cleared his throat. Dry details were easy. "A hostage rescue mission. Eleven members of the Royal Irish captured outside Freetown."

"You said Sierra Leone?"

John nodded. "The MOD—they were still looking for someone to blame when I left. How did a bunch of untrained kids and civilians—Christ, Sherlock, they were young; I had twelve- and thirteen-year-olds aiming grenade launchers at me—how did they manage to capture eleven armed British soldiers?"

"That was you. The rescue mission." Sherlock's face was just visible in the light from the window, painted over with rivulets of water. It was oddly gratifying to see Sherlock look surprised. "There was—nothing really to do when I was in the hospital. I made my brother send me a subscription to _The Guardian_—no doubt he would have preferred _The Daily Telegraph_. I read about it. Hostages rescued in twenty minutes with only one fatality." He traced a thumb over John's cheek. "You really are a hero."

"No." The word was blunt and heavy, and John tilted his head away from Sherlock's hand. "No, I'm not."

"John."

John wouldn't—couldn't—look him in the eye. "I had one job, Sherlock. One. Sixteen men in my troop. Bring them back. That's all I had to do."

"The one fatality."

"Over 150 men involved, and I'm the captain who got one killed." He pulled away and rolled onto his back, then out of the bed onto his feet.

"You didn't—"

"I bloody well did," John snapped, stabbing a finger at Sherlock. "You fucking weren't there. I saw the shooter. _I saw him._ I could have taken him out. I didn't, and a good man died." There was a water glass on the nightstand. It shattered against the wall opposite before John could think. He winced at the splintering crash.

"John!" Sherlock unfolded himself out of the bed and stepped towards him. When he grabbed John's upper arms it took all the control John had not to hit him.

"Don't," he said, breaking Sherlock's hold easily. "Don't touch me." Sherlock stepped back, his hands open. John forced himself to meet Sherlock's eyes and saw an unfamiliar expression—was he worried? "I had one job, Sherlock." He felt as if he were speaking with a throat full of broken glass.

And Sherlock, goddamn him, goddamn his perception, stepped toward him the way one would a nervous animal and spoke with a quiet, gentling tone. "It was a kid, wasn't it. The shooter." John stared at him, willing him away, breathing hard through his nose. "It was," Sherlock said, and took a step closer, a hand out towards him. John didn't pull away, and Sherlock took his hand and pulled him in. "Jesus. John..."

John let Sherlock hold him for a few minutes, never quite relaxing into the embrace, standing stiffly in his arms. When he drew back, he was careful, so careful, not trusting himself, not yet. "I should clean up my mess," he said. "You might get hurt."

"John," Sherlock caught his arm. "I trust you."

John moved past and started picking up pieces of broken glass. "Well, maybe you shouldn't." He threw away the larger pieces and ran his hand over the carpeting, picking up a few tiny shards in his skin. He brushed them off into the bin. "You should go back to bed. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

"Not without you," Sherlock said.

"Fine." John walked around to his side of the bed and lay back down on his side, facing the window. He didn't fight when Sherlock laid down behind him and pulled him in close, but he didn't relax, either.

"There wasn't a good choice to make," Sherlock murmured in his ear. "You did the best you could."

John had heard the same empty words from his commanding officers. And Sherlock still didn't understand. "I shot the kid," he said. "He was lining up a second shot." Sherlock's arms tightened in response.

John felt Sherlock's mouth press hard against his shoulder, against the scar one of the kid's friends had made. "There was no good choice," Sherlock repeated.

"I'll be sure to tell that to Jenny and the girls the next time I see them."

Sherlock said nothing, but buried his face against John's skin. It wasn't until Sherlock's breathing had evened out with sleep that John gave himself the luxury of taking Sherlock's hand in both of his and leaning back against him, watching the storm outside the glass.

* * *

"Stop treating me like I'm about to break; I'm fine!" Irene sat propped against the headboard of her hotel bed. "You know, 'keep her under observation' doesn't mean I need all three fucking Stooges standing around my bed."

John glanced at Greg and Sherlock and fought a smile. They _were_ being a little overprotective, maybe. "Bad metaphor," he said. "We don't need anyone else getting a knock on the head."

"I'll knock _you_ on the head if you don't stop hovering."

"Wasn't 'irritability' one of the symptoms the doctor told us to look out for?" asked Sherlock. Irene threw a pillow at him.

"Just tell me we know who this guy is now," said Irene.

John sat down on the side of the bed and sighed. "We really don't. I mean, there's not much to go on: Molly's description, and the notes. He doesn't exactly tell us anything about himself."

"Doesn't he?" Sherlock curled in the armchair, knees drawn up to his chest. "He's my age, possibly a bit younger. British, and considers himself to be at least marginally upper class. And he claims to have met me and had a conversation with me. That last bit doesn't really help, of course, but it's part of what we know. He's relatively attractive—something I knew before Molly's sketch—"

"What?" said Greg.

_"Attractive?"_ said John at the same time.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Oh, stop being jealous. He was attractive enough to get Molly's attention, but he's not so attractive that he can't pass unobserved when he wants to. He blends in."

"And you got all that from the notes and a police sketch?" John still wasn't sure how he felt about hearing Sherlock call the man who'd tried to kill him 'attractive'.

"Just the notes, really." Sherlock looked at the three of them. "You don't see it? It's obvious. Just look at his last note. He refers to Irene as the American—suggesting that he isn't. Then he calls John 'a bit of rough'—British idiom, suggests he thinks John's beneath me. He couldn't be more wrong." One corner of his mouth twitched. "The fact that he considers himself a suitable replacement says he thinks he's got more social status than John. The age is a guess, but given that he fits in at the shows, it's a good one."

"But Molly didn't mention an accent," Irene said.

"He might have used a different one speaking to her—or possibly, she didn't notice it. Do you notice when someone has an accent similar to yours?"

Irene snorted. "I would if I were in the UK. The sound of home, you know."

"Hmm. So possibly faking an accent."

Greg blinked. "You're in the wrong line of work, mate. You tell the police that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "They have their own profile, they said. I don't know if they listened to me or not."

"I'm listening to you," John said. "What else do you know?"

Sherlock uncurled and sprang to his feet with a sudden burst of energy, pacing the length of the hotel room. "He's not working entirely alone. He's got an accomplice, or he's convincing people to help him."

"Bribing?" asked John.

"Possibly. No, likely. Leaving a note in my room might seem harmless enough to a chambermaid who needs extra money." Sherlock shrugs. "It's happened before, but usually it's a phone number or a room key."

Greg coughed. It sounded suspiciously like, "Naked pictures."

"Just the once in the room," Sherlock said, waving a hand. "The rest were backstage. She was inventive, I'll give her that."

"But the police interviewed the staff," Irene said.

Sherlock turned to look at her, eyebrow raised. "If you'd taken a bribe to sneak into someone's room, only to discover that the note was threatening, would _you_ confess?"

"What about the cameras?" she said.

John spoke up, warming to the idea. "There was a lot of footage to go through. Who pays attention to a maid going into a room? And that's for the places they _had_ footage. The footage from outside your room in Detroit never existed." Sherlock smiled at him. John grinned back at him, then continued. "So. He's British—or wants us to think he is. He's _attractive_—" Sherlock rolled his eyes "—and he fits in to the concert crowds. Well. That should make him easy to spot."

"So really," Irene said, "we don't know anything about him that will actually _help_. Don't quit your day job, Sherlock."

* * *

Irene sat with John and Sherlock in a coffee shop across the street from the hotel, cradling a cup of tea she wasn't drinking. "This is bullshit," she said. "Come on. I don't even have a headache anymore!"

"You were only scheduled for two more stops anyway," John said.

"Yeah, and I'm going to make them."

"No you're not." John called up that particular type of patience he hadn't had a use for in months. "Do you understand what a concussion is? It is a traumatic brain injury. Your _brain_, Irene. You're not going out there and pogoing around on stage."

"Sherlock, come on, tell him."

Sherlock shook his head. "This is between you two."

"Coward."

"I know where he sleeps," John said. He reached across the table and touched Irene's arm. "I mean it. God knows we'll miss you around here, but the doctors are right." He twitched an almost-smile. "Besides, my sister would kill me over the liability issues alone."

Irene sighed and squeezed John's hand. "Ah well. I suppose it's back to playing bitches and breeches for me."

"The life of a contralto," Sherlock agreed. "You know... you could throw it all over and come over to my side of things."

Irene shook her head. "I couldn't, really. You're a lovely fling, darling, but I don't want to marry you."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and sprawled lazily. "Your first love doesn't appreciate you—isn't that enough reason to leave? You know you deserve more than a supporting role. Opera is never going to give you more than that."

Irene laughed and glanced at John before turning back to Sherlock. "Oh, and you will? Besides, if I leave opera now, everyone will say you talked me into selling out."

"I'm _trying_," Sherlock said. "But you seem to have too damn much artistic integrity." He barely managed to say it with a straight face.

"Children," John said, holding his hands up between them. "Irene has a flight to catch. Do you have everything, Irene?"

She nodded, rising to her feet. "You don't have to come to the airport with me," she said.

"Yes, I do," said John.

Sherlock stood as well, kissed Irene on the forehead. She pulled him down to whisper something in his ear. He straightened and grinned at her. "If you change your mind, you know how to reach me." He gave John a quick kiss then walked back towards the hotel. Once he was safely inside, John picked up Irene's bags.

"Come on, let's get you to the airport." He paused. "What did you say to him?"

"Nothing I'm going to tell you," Irene said. "We've got to have some secrets, you know."

* * *

There wasn't a note under the door. When Sherlock opened the hotel room door—new hotel, new city—there was nothing. He let Greg in for the now-obligatory look around the room to make sure it was empty—ridiculous, but John was already working and insisted on it.

It wasn't until he swung the door closed, finally alone after a crowded (but blessedly short) flight to Portland, that Sherlock saw the manila envelope taped to the inside of the room door. His name was scrawled across the front. He reached towards it, felt the weight of it against his fingers as he lifted it from the door. Heart starting to pound with fear and excitement, he took the envelope over the desk and sat down to open it.

The photographs that slipped out caught his attention first. Glossy, 8" by 10" photos, all with the same subject. John in the theatre lobby in Seattle talking to Sally. John on his mobile walking along a sidewalk—which city? Sherlock couldn't tell at a glance. Then, worst of all, the back of John's head, close up. The photographer couldn't have been more than three feet behind John. Neatly drawn around it, cross-hairs. Sherlock turned the photo over, and scrawled on the back of it was: _It would be so easy._

He up-ended the envelope over the desk, looking for the note. It fluttered to the desk.

_Sherlock:_

_I've been patient. I've endured your little follies, but the time for playing is over. Put away your toys and send your little friends home. If you can't do it, I'll do it for you._

_You owe me, Sherlock. You belong to me. Don't make me regret everything I've done for you, you unappreciative prick. It's all been for you._

_-J_

Sherlock read the note several times over, looking from the paper to the photographs. He reached for his mobile to call John.

"Sherlock?"

"John. There was another note in the room."

"Christ." Sherlock could almost hear him rubbing the bridge of his nose. "How bad?"

"Bad. I think you need to see this."

"I'll be there in fifteen. Make sure the door's locked." He rang off before Sherlock could tell him to be careful.

Fourteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door. "It's me," John said. Sherlock let him in. "Where is it?" John said, and Sherlock gestured to the desk. John looked over the envelope, the photos, the note. "_Shit._"

"You don't sound surprised," Sherlock said, coming to stand behind him, staying close to him for comfort.

"I did tell you," John said. "When he doesn't get whatever he wants from you, he's going to turn on you. This kind always do." He looked down at the note again and reread it. "Looks like it's started."

"John, the photos—"

"I know." He breathed out through his nose, mouth a thin line. "Might've used a telephoto lens, but it doesn't look like it. The fucker was right behind me. And I missed it. Look. This was after the show in Seattle. Which means he was _right behind you_, and I fucking missed it." John dropped the photo and pushed past Sherlock to pace the room. "How could I have missed that?" He stopped pacing and reached for his phone. "Fuck this. We need more security. Harry can goddamn well eat the cost. The alternative is not acceptable."

"John—"

"_What._"

"You don't have to do this alone."

"You don't get it, do you." John stood still, mobile still in his hand. "_This is what I am trained to do_. And I failed. This sodding lunatic got close enough to touch you."

"But he didn't."

"Because we got _lucky_. Fuck that." John threw his mobile onto the bed. "No more after-show appearances. You go from the hotel to the green room to the stage and back again. If I get any sense that something is off, we cancel the show."

"John."

John whirled on him, eyes blazing. "If _anything_ is off, you're not leaving the bloody hotel room. No more interviews, no more—"

"_John._" Sherlock stepped over and took him by the shoulders. "You say you have a job to do. Well so do I. You have to let me do it."

"I can't—" John lowered his head, hands clenching and unclenching as he half-turned away. "I can't fail someone else." He refused to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sherlock said, then laughed, low and dry. "You can't keep me a prisoner in my hotel room, you prat."

That earned a ghost of a smile from John. "Could try," he said. "Ever hear of Stockholm syndrome?"

"Too late," Sherlock said, and kissed him. "Come on. Take me over to the theatre and keep an eye on me while you do all the hard work."

"I still say we need extra security," John said.

"Yeah, if it comes down to profit margins or me, don't think for a moment I'm going to come first," Sherlock said. "We'll manage."

* * *

The first show in Portland had gone well, no further signs of trouble. John had seemed particularly impressed with the venue staff, including security, who were inclined to take his concerns seriously. As a result, John had relaxed just enough to let Sherlock convince him that they should go for a stroll around the neighbourhood the next day.

Sherlock didn't fool himself that he had introduced the notion of sex in a public restroom to John, but he had certainly been the one to introduce it into their relationship. He didn't regret it, not in the least—especially not now, moments after being the recipient of a scorchingly hot blowjob in the men's of a riverside park—but he did wonder a little at the headlines, should they ever get caught. He smiled at the potential for uproar as he leaned against a picnic table, sated and a little drowsy. The park was nearly empty in the early winter mid-afternoon. He could see John, perhaps a hundred meters away, buying coffee from a cart. It was cold out, but not as frigid as the last few stops had been.

"Hey." Sherlock opened his eyes at the unfamiliar voice. The man walking towards him was dark-haired and dishevelled, in a dirty green parka and torn jeans. His face was covered by several days' worth of scruff. Homeless, possibly.

Sherlock gave a small smile. "Hey." He waited to see if there was any recognition. It happened sometimes, and there would be a script to follow: Hello-I-love-your-work-will-you-sign-this-for-me-please-can-I-take-a-photograph. It didn't happen often, but it was happening more often since the Grammys.

"Spare some change?"

Sherlock took a closer look at the man and re-evaluated his initial first impression. Possibly homeless, and higher than a kite. He should have spotted that sooner. He raised his hands in an open-handed posture. "I don't have any, I'm sorry."

"You're a fucking liar. Empty your pockets." The man's eyes grew harder and Sherlock's pulse kicked in the side of his throat. He wanted to look towards John, but didn't want to take his eyes off the man.

"Really, I don't—" His throat closed with a click when the man pulled out a knife. _Where was John? _

"Don't play with me, you fucker. Empty your pockets."

There wasn't much in Sherlock's pockets. Hotel room key, his mobile, his wallet, empty of everything except some ID and the remains of his per diem. This was ridiculous, it was broad daylight and _where the bloody hell was John?_ His heart was racing. He tried to think. He tried to buy time by removing each item from his pockets slowly, one at a time, and the man snatched them up, looking them over. Sherlock had just pulled his wallet out when he saw John over the mugger's shoulder. John had circled them, and was coming up behind the mugger.

"Come on, hand it over," the man said, snatching the wallet and opening it. He pulled out the small handful of bills and tucked them into his jeans pocket. "What else?"

"That's it." John was closer now, and Sherlock tried not to look at him.

"Bullshit." The man grabbed his wrist, knife loosely clasped in his other hand. "Where's the rest?" John was there, right there... then he grabbed the man by the knife hand, wrenching the arm up behind the mugger's back.

"Behind you, you dick," John spoke through gritted teeth. "Let him go." The man did. "Sherlock, get back." Sherlock stumbled out of harm's way. John pulled harder on the arm with the knife. "Drop it. Now. Or I'll break your fucking arm." The man cursed and dropped the knife. John kicked it out of reach and grabbed the mugger's other shoulder. "Now the wallet—"

The man swung wildly, trying to throw free elbow into John's gut—even Sherlock could see he hadn't a chance of actually connecting. John sidestepped easily and wrenched the man's trapped arm until he grunted. "Wrong answer. The wallet."

The man tossed down the wallet. "Sherlock," John said. "You all right?" Sherlock nodded. Then John said, "Is it him?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. No, I don't think so."

"You're sure?" In the meantime, the mugger whined a little at the pressure on his arm. "Shut up," John said.

"I'm sure," Sherlock said. "Wrong—wrong everything."

"All right," John spoke to the mugger. "I'm going to let you go here in a minute, and you want to think about what you do after that." His voice was harsh as he reached into the man's pocket and retrieved the stolen cash. "You can walk away from this, I'll let you—but if you so much as _look_ at him, you won't be walking anywhere for a long time. Understand?"

The mugger licked his lips nervously. "U-Understand."

"Okay then. I'm going to let go. And then you're going to run." John paused. "And if you're _very_ lucky, I'll give you five seconds before I call the police. Ready?"

The man nodded. John shoved him forward hard enough to send him to his knees, letting go of his hold. The man looked back up at John, who was cold-eyed and calm, not even breathing hard. Sherlock's heart beat hard enough in his chest that it ached. The man scrabbled forward to his feet and took off running. John started to pursue, but Sherlock caught his arm. "Leave it."

"What if you're wrong?"

"I'm not, I'm sure of it." He tugged John's arm. "Please. Let's just—let's just get out of here."

"You okay?"

"Fine. Just shaken." It was mostly true. Sherlock didn't want to look too closely at just how shaken he was.

"All right. Let's get you back to the room and get you some tea." John leaned over and picked up Sherlock's belongings and handed them over before taking his hand and leading him from the park.

* * *

"We should at least file a police report," John said. He'd sat Sherlock on the bed and was making what would be a poor excuse for tea out of hotel tea bags and heated tap water.

"No."

"Sherlock—"

"No. What's the point? He was probably homeless, definitely high. He didn't hurt me."

John handed him a paper cup of murky liquid that smelled vaguely tannic. Sherlock just held it in his hands. John studied him closely, looking for any sign of shaking. Instead he was... still, which was disturbing enough. He sat down next to Sherlock and pulled him close. "Hey. Come here. It's okay," he murmured, pulling Sherlock's head down to his shoulder.

Sherlock lowered the cup of tea to the carpet and reached for John, pulling his face close and kissing him hard. He bit at John's lips until John opened his mouth, letting Sherlock lick at his tongue and fist his hands against the fabric of John's shirt. John pulled away for a moment to protest, "Sherlock—"

Sherlock pulled him back and moved into John's lap, straddling his thigh. He licked John's jawline, down the side of his neck, while John squirmed.

"Sherlock—"

"Shut up and fuck me," Sherlock hissed in his ear. He started pulling off his shirt, but John made no move to get naked.

"Easy, tiger." John tried not to laugh, because _really_.

"No." Sherlock said. He stood and shoved his jeans and pants down, giving a little growl when he couldn't pull them past his boots. He leaned over John, naked except for the clothing trapped around his calves. "You're not listening to me. I _need_ you to fuck me. Hard. Right now."

"This is adrenaline, you know that, yeah?" John swallowed, his eyes moving over Sherlock's face.

"I know you're feeling protective. _I don't need protective right now._"

Protective could wait a little while longer, perhaps. John caught him around the waist and swung him down to the bed. He stood over Sherlock and patiently removed the tangle of Sherlock's boots and jeans.

Sherlock slid up the bed while John undressed. John barely managed to hide a grin when Sherlock started squirming against the bedspread, watching as he walked around the side of the bed to get the lube and the condoms. Finally, John spoke. "Turn over." Sherlock obeyed with alacrity, rising up on his hands and knees, pale skin flushing pink. _God_. John undressed himself much faster than he had Sherlock, reaching out to steady himself against Sherlock's back as he stepped out of his jeans and pants. When John's hand slid down the curve of Sherlock's arse, Sherlock exhaled in a noisy rush. The heat of his skin radiated against John's hand and oh _Christ_ how much hotter would he be inside? John knelt on the bed behind him, dragging his fingernails against Sherlock's spine.

He curled against Sherlock's body, nudging the head of his swollen cock between Sherlock's thighs and feeling him spread just enough. He nuzzled at the back of Sherlock's neck, looking for the perfect spot to sink his teeth.

"John, please. Please, I need you."

"I know." John nipped at one of Sherlock's shoulderblades, kissing his way down Sherlock's spine. "I'll take care of you." Sherlock dropped his head to hang between his arms, breathing through his nose slow and steady as John slid his mouth over the curve of Sherlock's back, just pausing at the cleft of his arse.

John's hands closed over the soft skin of Sherlock's hips, thumbs stroking over his arse then gently parting him so John could lick a slow teasing trail from bottom to top, barely pausing at Sherlock's entrance. "_Please_," Sherlock said. John pressed his face to Sherlock's arse—mind so full of heat and salt and musk he couldn't tell what was scent and what was taste—using just the tip of his tongue to tease him. It was enough to make Sherlock cry out and press back against John's mouth. When John dipped inside of him, Sherlock gasped. "Please."

John kept fluttering his tongue in and out, fumbling one-handed for the bottle and flipping the lid open with his thumb. John lifted his mouth away and murmured, "Tell me."

"Fuck me, oh god stop teasing and _fuck me._"

He'd never seen Sherlock this desperate before, begging, begging for John's cock inside of him. It was the hottest thing John had ever seen. He nudged one slick finger into Sherlock's tight hole and Sherlock slid back against him hard, begging for more. It was hypnotic, watching the way Sherlock writhed on his hand. John flicked his tongue across his lips and closed his other hand around his cock. He stroked himself a few times, fighting not to close his eyes, not wanting to miss a second of the way Sherlock squirmed.

"Give me more," Sherlock groaned, the sound mingling with the wet and slick sounds of John's hands stroking both bodies. Two fingers now, and Sherlock was panting, pleas louder. John couldn't stand to tease anymore. He grabbed the condom with his free hand and tore open the wrapper with his teeth.

"Come here," John rasped, trying to roll the condom on with one hand while the other pulled Sherlock to him by a hip. He lined himself up and tried to go slow, but Sherlock wouldn't let him, slamming onto him hard. "Ow, carefu—oh _Christ,_" John growled, as he lost everything to the tight heat engulfing him.

"Don't move," Sherlock said. "Oh god." John could feel Sherlock's muscles rippling around his cock and he gritted his teeth against the urge to _thrust_. Sherlock shifted his weight and John felt the slight jerk of Sherlock's hips as Sherlock grasped his own cock. _Stay still, oh god, stay still_, he told himself, tightening his fingers on Sherlock's hips until finally Sherlock moaned, "Now, John, now." John tried to start slow, but Sherlock was having none of it. John had to hang on to keep his balance as Sherlock thrust back against him, surrounding him and squeezing him over and over. The hair was standing up all over John's body; he dropped his head to try to think of something distracting, because Jesus Christ, he wasn't going to last like this.

Looking down was a mistake. The sight of Sherlock's arse stretching around his cock nearly pushed him over the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Sherlock," he warned. John felt the shift of Sherlock's body as he started stroking himself faster. John tightened his hands and took back control, thrusting his hips hard and fast, feeling Sherlock tighten and tremble around him until John couldn't breathe. Sherlock arched his back and let his head fall forward with a low guttural cry. John followed in a few hard strokes, legs trembling and muscles burning.

He kissed Sherlock between the shoulderblades, turning his face to nuzzle against the damp skin over Sherlock's spine. John rolled them on to their sides, his arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock took one of his hands and nuzzled at it, but was otherwise uncharacteristically quiet. John withdrew slowly to clean up. When he came back, Sherlock was curled in the other bed on his side. John could see the small tremors running through him. Now maybe Sherlock would let him be protective again. John lay next to him and pulled him close, wrapping Sherlock up in his arms and legs and nestling him to his chest. He nuzzled Sherlock's hair, murmuring, "Shh. It's all right."

After a long while, it was.

* * *

San Francisco was a nightmare from the start. The flight was two hours late, denting an already impossibly tight schedule. John was making phone calls from the minute they stepped off the plane. There was no time to go to the hotel; instead they headed straight for the theatre, luggage and all. Since Portland, Sherlock had been staying closer to John's side than before. For the most part, it was fine. It made looking after him easier, but the night before John had been ready to kill him. He'd wanted nothing more than just a few hours of sleep, but Sherlock had sat across the room and played his guitar until after six AM—and quiet or no, John couldn't sleep through it this time.

The theatre was easily one of the largest they'd played yet, the auditorium vast, the art deco interior badly in need of restoration. Sherlock flung himself into one of the theatre seats, while John, Greg, and Molly went to work. With Sally at the hotel, the merch setup fell to John. Sherlock followed him into the lobby. John's eyes were already stinging with fatigue, and by the end of the night he knew he'd be just this side of falling over—too many nights of worry.

"Sherlock, go take a nap or something. We'll be fine." John hauled boxes onto the table and started opening them.

"I can help here," Sherlock said, frowning when John laughed at him.

"Thank you, but no. Come on, you need the energy for tonight." He looked at Sherlock, who looked as drawn as John felt. "At least one of us should be alert, yeah?"

"Fine." Sherlock left the lobby, and John bit back a smile at how much he'd sounded like a cranky toddler.

Hours later, after the show, John was in his now-customary place behind Sherlock as Sherlock signed autographs and posed for photos. It was a grabby crowd. So far John had stepped in to pry two teen girls off Sherlock, and one boy who'd managed to grab him by the shoulders and try to kiss him. It was getting old, fast.

Finally the crowd thinned, and John and Sherlock left the lobby. "Oh, hang on," John said. He ducked into the manager's office. "Jeff! Hey, how did we do tonight?"

Jeff, a tall, bear-like man, looked at him oddly. "Sorry?"

"The receipts?" John said.

"One of your guys picked them up already," he said. "Did well, though!"

John frowned. Had he asked Greg to take care of it? He rubbed at his forehead trying to remember. He had in Seattle, but not in Portland... Shit. "Er, great. Thanks. Nice meeting you." They shook hands, and John went back with Sherlock to the green room.

When they got there, John went over and thumped Greg on the shoulder. "Thanks for taking care of the money for me, man. I forgot I asked."

"You didn't," Greg said, handing John a beer.

"Oh. Well, definitely thanks then," John said and clinked his bottle to Greg's. The look on Greg's face made him pause. "What?"

"John, I didn't pick anything up."

"But I just saw Jeff, and he said—" John stopped and turned to the rest of the room. Sherlock had been with him, and couldn't have been arsed to go to the office at any rate. Sally was over on the loveseat with Molly, and John hurried over to them. He crouched and kept his voice low. "Sally, you didn't pick up the take tonight, did you?"

"God no, why would I do that?" Sally said. "Not my job."

John's pulse started beating in his temples. "Molly?" She shook her head. Anderson was his last hope, and god help him, he never thought it would come to that. Anderson was leaning against a wall chatting up one of the press. John excused himself and pulled Anderson out of earshot. No luck there either.

He fought to keep from running back to the office. "Hey again," he said, managing a smile. "So... I've just checked with my lot, and none of them came by. You're sure someone was here?"

Jeff frowned. "Let me check the receipt book..." He flipped it open. "See, right here—" his finger paused on the entry. "John Watson signed for it. Wait. That's you, isn't it?"

John looked at the book and for a moment wondered just how sleep deprived he was. Not only was it his name, it was his signature. "But I didn't—" He pointed at the initials. "Who is E.J.?"

"Edgar Jackson, he's the owner."

"Is he still here?" John forced his voice to remain even, calm.

"Probably in the bar." Jeff was starting to look worried. "Listen, you're sure you didn't—I mean—" The look John levelled at him stopped him mid-sentence. "Right."

"I'll check the bar," John said.

Sherlock was in the lobby waiting for him. "John, what's wrong?"

His lips thinned. "The money's gone."

"What?"

"Tonight's take. It's gone. Whoever did it did a damn good job signing my name, too." He crossed the lobby to the bar, where he found a small, weaselly man smoking a cigarette and flirting with the bartender, who was clearly in the middle of shutting down for the night. John smiled. "Mr Jackson?" The man turned, irritated. John extended his hand. "Hi, I'm John Watson, the tour manager. I don't believe we've met yet."

Edgar Jackson's face tightened for a moment, then fell. "Watson. But you're not—"

"No," John said. "I'm not."

"Fuck."

"What did he look like, the man who said he was me?"

Jackson actually looked nervous. "He, uh, I don't know, he had ID, and he sounded like one of you. I wasn't really paying that much attention. I'd seen him around all night, so I just assumed..."

"Thanks," John said.

"We can stop payment on the check for the door take," Jackson said. "I can issue another one. The bar though..."

"Cash," John said.

Jackson nodded. "About five thousand, if I remember."

John rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "And you don't remember what the guy looked like. You just _handed_ him five thousand dollars, and you can't give me so much as his hair colour?"

"Dark. Not like his though," he indicated Sherlock.

Something cold wrapped around John's heart. "And he sounded British?"

Jackson nodded.

"I—I'll be back."

"I'll be in the office," Jackson said to John's back as he left the bar. Sherlock trailed in his wake.

John pulled Greg out of the green room. "Greg, how fucked are we?"

"What? What's going on?"

"The money's missing. Somebody signed for it with my name and the dolt of an owner handed it over to him." John ran a hand over his hair. "How fucked are we with this?"

Greg sucked in air through his teeth. "How much are we talking?"

John could feel Sherlock hovering behind him, could feel Sherlock's hand at the small of his back. "Jackson says he'll reissue the check for the door. I'm assuming Sally still has the merch money. So we're looking at the bar take. Five thousand in cash."

"Christ," Greg said. "We gotta find it."

"That bad?"

"...I don't know if they could fire you fast enough."

* * *

**Notes**: Chapter title is from "Voodoo" by Godsmack. _The Guardian_ is, to the best my knowledge, a liberal-leaning newspaper, and _The Daily Telegraph_ is a conservative-leaning one. I don't think Sherlock much cares, but he figures _The Guardian_ would irritate Mycroft more.

In the opera world, there's a saying that contraltos are limited to playing "witches, bitches, and breeches" (women playing men, usually young boys). If you look at the list of contralto roles, it's not far wrong.


	7. If I Can't Have Everything

John was well and truly tired of being questioned by American police. They were unfailingly polite of course, and efficient, but he couldn't miss where their interest lay. He was the very first person they spoke to, the green room becoming an impromptu interrogation room. He was just grateful he'd had the presence of mind to tuck the gun away into one of the equipment cases before the police arrived.

"Are you sure you didn't sign for the money and then forget?"

"Mistakes happen. I'm sure if the money were to reappear, there'd be no questions asked."

"Mr Watson, could this be some sort of prank?"

"Mr Watson, is there anyone who might have something against you?

That last was the easiest to answer.

The idea of an obsessed stalker might seem far-fetched to a logical mind when such an obvious option as a cash-strapped new manager was standing right in front of them. Nevertheless, Sherlock retrieved the stalker's notes and repeated his own theories to the detective. Maybe she was more interested in them than the Portland police, or maybe she was just being polite. John didn't really care. Of course he was a logical first person of interest. It was his name on the receipt. His handwriting.

He pulled Sherlock away as soon as the police were done with both of them. "What do you think?" he asked.

"They seem competent enough," Sherlock said. "Not that it will help. He's far cleverer than that."

"Whose side are you on, anyway?" John folded his arms in front of him, then lifted a hand to gnaw at one of his cuticles for a moment before stopping himself.

Sherlock just gave him a look. "Don't be stupid. Of course I'm not on his side."

"You just sound like you admire him, is all."

"John, are—are you jealous?"

"Of course not."

"Good, because I'd hate to imagine you being jealous of my _stalker_, for God's sake."

"Now who's being stupid?"

Sherlock caught John's arm as John tried to turn away. "Is this still because I said he was attractive? Because there is a difference, you realise, between saying 'he's attractive' in the general sense and 'I think he's attractive' in the specific sense."

John met Sherlock's eyes for a moment, then sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. This is just—what the hell is this, anyway?"

"It seems fairly straightforward," Sherlock said. "By taking the money, he can cast suspicions on all of us—"

"Or just me."

"—if he wants—or he can make sure you get fired and sent back to Britain."

"So we find him and get the money back."

"I don't know if it will be that easy," Sherlock said. "Not until we figure out what his endgame is."

"You know what his endgame is, Sherlock. It's you."

* * *

By the time they got to bed, it was nearly daybreak. When John crawled into bed next to Sherlock, they reached for one another, arms and legs twining. John nuzzled against Sherlock's shoulder, pressing his face against warm skin, breathing in Sherlock's scent. They kissed at first with open, gasping mouths, John tangling both hands in Sherlock's hair. He felt Sherlock stirring against his inner thigh and closed his eyes with a sigh, mind unfocused and hazy. He was so warm, and it was so comfortable curled against Sherlock. When Sherlock dragged his open mouth against John's cheek, John couldn't help it: he yawned.

It was contagious. "Damn it, John—" Sherlock's words were cut off as he covered his mouth against his upper arm, hands still on John's back.

John nuzzled at Sherlock's neck. "Sorry, 'm sorry. Make it up to you?"

Sherlock grumbled through a second yawn. He reached across John with one long arm and turned out the light. "Get some sleep."

They got barely three hours of sleep, then John had to face the one thing he dreaded most about the day: calling Harry. He couldn't really put it off any longer; she'd be expecting the bank deposit soon. While Sherlock was packing for the short train ride to San Jose, John dialled his phone.

"John! I wasn't expecting to hear from you until tomorrow. Aren't you supposed to be on a train right now?" Harry sounded bright and alert—of course, she would, it was after three PM in London.

"No, not until later. There might be a change in plans. We, ah, had another incident last night." John had thought this conversation out completely, starting with how he'd convince Harry not to sack him on the spot.

"Oh god. Is everyone all right?"

"We're fine," John said. "We're all fine. It wasn't like that."

"What happened?"

"Harry... there's been a miscommunication." John licked his lips and glanced at Sherlock, who was watching him steadily.

"John. You're freaking me out a little. Just tell me."

"We think that this guy—the stalker—we think he stole the money from last night's show." John took a breath and plunged on before Harry could respond. "The merch money is fine. And the theatre owner says he'll reissue the check for the bulk of it, but... our part of the bar take is gone. The police are working on it. We've got a few ideas of our own too. We'll get it back. We just need... time."

There was silence for a long moment, long enough that John fought the urge to squirm.

"Christ," Harry said. "How bad? How much did we lose?"

"...just over five thousand dollars."

Harry whistled. "Ah, Johnny. I can't cover that up."

"I know, Harry. I'd never ask you to."

"We've sacked tour managers for less," she said.

"I know. I've heard."

Harry was quiet for another moment. "I'm going to ask you this, and I want you to think before you answer."

John frowned. "Okay..."

"I know you're keeping Sherlock on a pretty close watch. How close—well, you're my brother and I love you. We've heard a few rumours seeping out. Which is fine, honestly. I'm not surprised if they're true. But, I have to ask: is there any chance he's slipping? I mean, he asked us to cut his per diem to next to nothing, he froze his accounts; he's deliberately short on cash this trip. Is there _any_ chance, any at _all_, that he's desperate enough to—"

"What? No! No, of course not." John refused to look at Sherlock, instead chewing his bottom lip. "No, there are witnesses."

Harry sighed. "How much time do you need?"

"A day or two?" John said.

"I can give you twenty-four hours, then I have to tell my boss. I'm sorry John, but if it's not back by then..."

"I know. I'm sorry. I hope none of this comes back to bite you." And that was the hell of it really: this didn't just affect John. Who knew what this might do to Harry's career?

"Me too," Harry said. "Call me tomorrow. Let me know what's going on." She rang off, leaving John looking at his phone.

"She thinks I took it, doesn't she?" Sherlock was folding a pair of trousers for his suitcase.

"What? No."

"That's the same thing you said to her," Sherlock said, one corner of his mouth twitching. "You're a horrible liar."

John sighed. "I'm sorry."

"I'd think the same, if I were in her shoes," Sherlock said. He was smiling, but there was an edge to it. "She knew me then, John. You didn't. Six months ago? It could have been me. Hell. Even three months ago."

"Hey." John tossed his mobile on the bed and went to him, putting his arms around Sherlock's waist. "That's not you now." Sherlock was tense for a moment, then relaxed, wrapping his arms around John in return.

"No. Not now." They were quiet a moment, breathing together. "Thank you," Sherlock said.

"For what?" John tilted his head just enough to look up at him.

"Trusting me." Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead in a gesture so uncharacteristic that John frowned. "I love you," Sherlock said.

"You all right?"

Sherlock chuckled, "I believe the customary response is 'I love you too'."

"Sherlock."

He sighed. "I'd like you to teach me." Sherlock rested his chin on John's shoulder. John wondered if it was so Sherlock wouldn't have to look at him. "The other day, in the park... when that man grabbed my wrist I—I panicked. I've had self-defence instruction. I've studied it. I should have known what to do, and I... just drew a total blank."

"Did you practice what you learnt before?" John asked, as gently as he could.

"A little."

"That's why you drill. So that when the time comes to use it, you don't have to _think_." John tugged Sherlock away from him enough to look at Sherlock's face. "I can try. We've got a few more hours before you have to catch the train." The thought of being apart—being _forced_ apart—made John uneasy.

"I still wish—"

"I'll be down later this afternoon, I promise," John said. "Someone needs to stay here to keep working with the police, and unfortunately, my name is on that receipt." His arms tightened around Sherlock. "You'll be fine. Let's go see how much you can learn in a few hours."

* * *

The hotel gym was empty thanks to some sweet-talking from John: the machines silent, the television in the corner off. The polished wood floor gleamed. Sherlock eyed it and gave John a dubious look. "Shouldn't there be a mat or something?"

"No," said John. "You're not going to throw me, and I'm not going to throw you. This is much more basic than that."

"Why not just teach me to shoot?"

"Uh, no," John said. "First of all, you don't have a gun—" he raised his hand when Sherlock opened his mouth to speak "—and you're not _getting_ a gun. Second of all, there's no time for you to learn how to shoot properly. You'd likely be the one getting shot when it got taken away from you." He folded his arms. "Any other questions?"

"No, not yet."

"The first thing to remember is this: don't be a hero. Your only goal is to _get away_. So anything I show you is to do just that. Break free, and incapacitate enough to get away. _Nothing else._ Got it?"

Sherlock nodded.

John said, "If you want to make someone lose interest in you in a hell of a hurry, you want to aim for the eyes, the nose, the throat, or the groin." Sherlock winced and John nodded. "Exactly. You're not trying to play nice here, Sherlock. If someone's coming after you, you fight dirty." He demonstrated, swinging a hand slowly up towards Sherlock's face, fingers out. Sherlock barely blinked, focused with an intensity John hadn't seen anywhere except the stage. "You want to jab at the eyes, or at the throat. Aim is tricky, but if you hit, it's effective as hell." Another swing, flat palm forward. "Flat of your hand against the nose—you've got a good chance of breaking it. And as to the groin," John gave a faint grin, "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that any sort of hit will work, but grab, twist, and pull generally works best."

Sherlock didn't so much as twitch the corner of his mouth. "Anything else?"

"Well, sure—anything that's soft and exposed will do. But remember, you're not in this for the whole fight. Incapacitate, and run."

Sherlock nodded. "How do I—"

In one smooth movement, John reached his left arm across and grabbed Sherlock by his wrist. Then had to duck when a set of long fingers came jabbing at his eyes. John grinned up at Sherlock, having to swallow around a burst of pride. "Well done, that."

"Too slow," Sherlock said, frowning. "And you're still holding on to me."

"Still, the instinct was a good one. Now, speaking of this," he nodded at his hand on Sherlock's wrist, "the mugger, yeah? This was what he did." John watched Sherlock carefully for any sign of fear, instead Sherlock looked thoughtful. John tightened his fingers and continued. "All right. The weakest point of any hold is right here." With his free hand John pointed at the place where his thumb and forefinger met. "Take advantage of it. I'll show you." He let go of Sherlock and put Sherlock's hand around his wrist. "Hold on tight." Sherlock did, and with a few twists of his arm, John was free.

"Show me again," Sherlock demanded. John did. They went back and forth several times, Sherlock watching intently, then practising breaking free himself. After a few rounds, Sherlock stopped. "John. There's a way out of this, you know."

"I know," said John. "I'm showing you. We can probably move on to—"

"No. I mean, I could get the money."

John released his wrist. "Sherlock, I can't ask that you—"

"Not me," Sherlock said. "I'm a _junkie_, remember? I made sure all of my assets were locked up tight. Less temptation." He took a quick breath, and John could see the lines of strain on his forehead and around his eyes. "Mycroft."

"Your brother?"

"Five thousand is nothing to him, literally nothing. We replace what's missing and—"

John shook his head. "I'm not taking any money from your brother." _Bad enough I'm taking orders from him._

"Then don't. I will." Sherlock had a stubborn set to his jaw.

"_No._ I'm not going to be... beholden to anybody in your family. I'm just not."

"John—"

"Do you remember that night in the green room? How much did you hate me when you thought Mycroft had hired me? Do you really think that for five thousand dollars I won't come out of this owing him something?" John thought of the handgun tucked in the small of his back. _I already owe him enough._

"You sound as if you know him." Sherlock's laugh was short and bitter. John took too long in answering. "Jesus. Do you?"

"Of course not. I've never met him." It wasn't a lie. John held on to that.

Sherlock's expression softened, looking almost uncertain. "I wish you were coming with us this morning."

"I know. I do too." John tried not to think about Sherlock being over an hour away by train. The thought made his gut clench. "But I can't always be right there with you—you don't need that, either. You'd hate it. Right now you're just spooked. That's all."

"Security blanket," Sherlock said, mouth twitching into a half-smile.

John fought a grin, "Yeah, well, try to tell me that I'm soft and cuddly and I'll have to hurt you."

"Security blanket and a lethal weapon," Sherlock amended. They looked at each other for a long moment, then both started laughing.

"You git." John stepped around and behind him. "Back to work, yeah?" He reached up and pulled Sherlock into a choke hold. Sherlock responded by pressing his hips tight back against John, wriggling just a little. "That is not—that is not what I'd recommend doing," said John a little breathless.

"It'd be a distraction, at least?"

"Yes, it's very distracting. Now _stop._"

Sherlock, for a wonder, stopped. That alone said a lot about his state of mind. "Now," John said, reestablishing the hold he had around Sherlock's neck, "the key here is to shift the leverage in your favour..."

* * *

Six of them were gathered around a tiny table in the coffee shop next to the hotel, everyone clutching paper takeaway cups of caffeinated liquid of some variety. Sherlock sprawled in his chair, muscles a little rubbery from the unexpected workout. Despite John's assertion that mats weren't needed, he and John had wound up spilling on the floor more than once as Sherlock tried to figure out some of the hold breaks. He didn't know about John, but he suspected his own arse would be sore in a few hours from landing on the hardwood floor.

"John, what are we going to do?" Molly leaned against Greg as she spoke, and he slipped an arm around her. "They can't just sack you."

"They can and they will," said Sally, looking grim.

"But it's not John's fault!"

"Doesn't matter to them, love," Greg said.

"Maybe not my fault, but it was my responsibility," John said.

"I still don't understand," Anderson said. "Why would this guy do something like this? I mean, wouldn't he want to keep on Sherlock's good side?"

"He thinks he's doing me a favour," Sherlock said, taking a long swallow of too-strong coffee. "As far as he's concerned, John is a liability, and I'm too blind to see it."

"So what do we do?" asked Molly. "Can't we—I don't know—take up a collection? Something? I have a little bit saved, I could—"

John smiled. "Molly, that's sweet, but—"

"You can't just go home!" Molly said. "We need you here. Sherlock's so much _nicer_ when you're around—um, I mean."

"I know I'm a dick, Molly, it's all right," Sherlock said.

"You managed to deal with him for a long time before I came around," John said, not looking at Sherlock. Sherlock let his hand slip off the back to John's chair to rest against John's lower back, thumb circling.

"To hell with him, what about me?" Greg said. "We gotta keep you working, John. I've done your job before and I'm not in a big fucking hurry to do again, I can tell you." He grinned, but it went nowhere near his eyes.

"I think they should make Sally do it this time," Anderson said. "I had to do all the set up by myself before and that was a pain in the arse."

"Oi," said Sally. "You're not the only one who gets a little busy before a show, you know."

John laughed and raised his hands. "Hey. I'm overwhelmed by the love, really, but I'm _still here_, okay?"

"For now," Sherlock said, resting his elbow on the table and sinking his chin to his fist.

"Maybe we really could take up a collection," Molly said, sitting up. "At the show. We'll put out collection jars, yeah? It's for a good cause..."

"We could auction off a date with Sherlock," Sally said.

"No." John and Sherlock spoke simultaneously.

"Wouldn't raise enough money," Greg said. "Everybody else knows he's a dick too."

Ideas—most of them bad—flew back and forth until Greg looked at his watch. "We should be headed to the train station soon. Meet in the hotel lobby in fifteen, all right?" Chairs scraped across wood floors as they stood to go.

* * *

"I'll be in San Jose in time for soundcheck," John said. Sherlock's luggage was ready and waiting by the hotel room door. John's belongings were still scattered over the room. They were standing by the door, arms around each other. "Less than six hours. Think you can survive?"

"Mm, I don't know." Sherlock leaned down and kissed him. He grinned, but John didn't believe it, especially not with Sherlock's next words. "Twenty hours left before Harry makes her report."

"We'll figure something out," John said. "If the—if the money doesn't turn up, then... well, it's not like can forcibly send me home, can they? We'll have a little time—"

Sherlock tightened his arms and lowered his chin to John's shoulder. "I don't want 'a little time'."

"I know. I don't either." They held on to each other, John feeling each breath Sherlock took. Reluctantly, John broke the silence. "Be careful. Don't go anywhere alone, yeah?" When Sherlock nodded, John continued, "I've told Greg a little of what to look for, but mostly just—stay with someone."

"John, it'll be all right."

"You can't know that," John said, feeling something snap inside him. "There is someone out there who wants to _hurt_ you, and he might have found the perfect way to get me out of the way. Sherlock, he's been planning this since the beginning."

They looked at each other. "I know," said Sherlock.

"Whatever he wants, he's going to try for it today. I don't think he'll wait to see if I leave the country."

"I know," repeated Sherlock. "I hadn't—I was trying not to think about it, I guess."

John laughed, a harsh-edged sound. "Well that says it all. He's got you trying _not_ to think." He leaned up and kissed Sherlock hard, sliding his hand up and around the back of Sherlock's neck. At first he'd intended it as a goodbye, a simple parting of the ways, but fear set in—dread, a sense of loss—and suddenly John couldn't kiss him deeply enough, as if he could climb inside and stay there, always be there whenever Sherlock might need him.

There was a knock at the door, then Greg's voice. "Sherlock, we need to go."

John let him go, drawing his hands away as if he could delay the passage of time by how slowly he moved. "Be careful," he repeated. "Don't go anywhere alone."

"I promise," Sherlock said, stealing one more kiss before opening the door. "I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

The hotel in San Jose was in a dingy part of town. There were signs everywhere that the dot-com bubble had burst with particularly devastating effect in the neighbourhood—boarded-up buildings, vacant lots, half-finished housing developments. Sherlock checked in with the others and stayed with the group on the way up to their rooms.

Sherlock let Greg unlock the room door and then followed him in. "All right?" Greg asked.

"Yeah, fine."

Greg started giving the room a thorough inspection; it was nothing like John, the way he had moved through Irene's room that night in Detroit. This was clumsy, uncertain. "You're just being quiet, is all," Greg said.

"Enjoy it while it lasts," Sherlock said, managing a small grin. He emptied his pockets onto the dresser, then frowned. "Damn it. Where's my mobile?"

"Hm?" Greg flopped onto one of the beds. "I dunno—you had it on the train, because you kept texting John." He grinned. "You know that's kind of pathetic, right? You just saw him two hours ago."

"Shut up." Sherlock mentally retraced his steps. He had the phone in his hand when he stepped off the train—he remembered putting it in his pocket to reshoulder his bag. Had checked it again in the cab to the hotel—so it had gotten that far. "The front desk," he said. "I set it down as I was checking in." He started for the door, and Greg pulled himself up off the bed.

"Right, let's go look."

Sherlock sighed. "I think I'll be all right going down to the _lobby_."

"Yeah, but if you weren't, John would kill me, and I'm sure he knows some pretty painful ways to do it." Greg pushed Sherlock towards the door. "Come on, hurry up. We should have been at the club half an hour ago."

It only took a moment to find it, sitting on a corner of the reception counter. Sherlock frowned as he picked it up. He flipped it open and unlocked it. It was his; there was a message from John: _Cleaning staff might have seen something. Talking to them shortly._ Still frowning, Sherlock pocketed the mobile and nodded at Greg. "Thought I left it at the other end."

"Someone probably picked it up and thought it was theirs. You done?"

"Yeah."

"Come on, let's get over there before Anderson decides the amps need rearranging again."

* * *

The bar was empty this early in the afternoon. Sherlock was tempted to rest his head on the table and take a nap, but he was too keyed up, despite the poor sleep from the night before. He held his guitar, not really playing, just plucking the strings tunelessly. When his mobile beeped, he grabbed for it, expecting John.

It was from an unknown number: —_There. This is much better. _Another beep. —_Much easier to talk to you this way. Why didn't you give me your number before?_

Sherlock paused before replying. —_I had no way of contacting you._

_—Very clever, leaving your phone where I could find it._

—_Thought you'd still be in SF, keeping an eye on John._ It was a lie.

_—It was never him, you know that. I need to see you._

Sherlock looked at the clock on the wall. Just over three hours until soundcheck. Sixteen hours left to get the missing money. To keep John with him. He never hesitated. —_You have something that belongs to me. I'd like to talk about that._

_—Meet me, and we'll talk. _

Three hours. That should be long enough. —_Where?_

The answer seemed to take forever. Sherlock put his guitar back in the case, and reached for his jacket. Finally, his phone beeped again—a street address in town, including which train route to take and which stop to use. It was followed by: _—Tell anyone, and you'll never get it back._

Sherlock looked around the room for a moment and spotted a stack of napkins on the bar. He grabbed one and scribbled a note on it, and tucked the note into his guitar case with the guitar. He left the bar and wound his way through the empty main room of the club to the backstage area. Greg was talking to Molly about lighting cues, so Sherlock ducked behind a stack of equipment. He eased away backstage, then propped his guitar case up against the wall and slipped out the back door.

A few minutes later, Sherlock was headed down the sidewalk in the bright, crisp afternoon sunshine.

* * *

John fought the urge to slam his fist into the hotel room wall. This was getting him nowhere. Absolutely no one had seen anything unusual. Even if he pressed, asking specifically about a man with dark hair, he got nowhere. From the sounds of it, the police weren't having any more luck than he was, but at least they weren't quite so interested in him anymore.

He packed his things with a methodical speed born of practice and long necessity, opening the room safe last of all. The Sig Sauer and the ammo both went into his carry-on bag. If he made the next train, he should be at the club in time to help with set up. John looked at his phone and smiled at the last text he'd gotten earlier, presumably from the train: —_Greg and Molly are snuggling. Please save me. _

John debated calling. Ridiculous, since he'd be there within two hours.

* * *

The wind was brisk as Sherlock waited at the light rail stop. He shrugged deeper into his jacket and tried not to think about what he was doing. Or rather, he tried not to think about how it might go spectacularly wrong.

The train ride was a short one, taking him deeper into what might have been a posh neighbourhood once, full of houses so new the landscaping hadn't even completely grown in—houses now empty with weedy yards and 'for sale' signs out front. There was no one on the street: no one walking a dog, no kids playing in yards, no one getting home from work. It looked as if there was only one occupied house on the block: his destination, a pale stucco ranch that had seen better days. The shades were drawn tight. There was no sign out front, but there was a divot where a 'for sale' sign might once have stood.

Sherlock took a deep breath and walked up to the front door. After a moment's hesitation, he pressed the doorbell.

Whatever he'd been expecting, it was not the slight, dark-haired man who answered the door. Sherlock just stared at him. That face. He knew that face, but it was all wrong. It was—it was animated.

"Sherlock! I knew you'd come. I knew you would. Come in!" The voice was a soft tenor, with a hint of an Irish lilt. He swung the door wide, and Sherlock stepped through. The house was dark, blindingly dark after the sunshine outside. After a moment of blinking, he could make out one small lamp in the corner of the living room. A quick look around showed him almost no furniture, no personal objects at all. Just two armchairs, a small entertainment setup with a television and a VCR. No one lived here, not really. Stayed, yes. But not lived.

"You seem to have... improved, since I saw you last," Sherlock said, not resisting as the man peeled away his coat like any good host.

The man preened. "I'd hoped you'd notice."

"I understand now why you never spoke to me," Sherlock said. "Be a bit odd, wouldn't it, the two of us in the same American clinic."

"Sherlock." The man smiled, a slow intimate movement that started at his eyes and crept down his features. "I was only there to take care of you."

Sherlock returned the smile, despite the hair prickling at the nape of his neck. "You helped keep me sane in there, Rich." It was perfectly true. He'd been a puzzle for Sherlock to solve.

"You know that's not my real name."

"But I've thought of you as Rich for so long, what should I _really_ call you?"

'Rich' pursed his lips in a pout. "You don't remember."

_Play the game._ He'd played it before: managers, journalists, fans. Sherlock looked, really looked, at the man standing across from him. The notes said he thought he'd had a connection with Sherlock. Well, he was used to that. Fans often felt that sense of connection. This was just a bit more... extreme. Sherlock saw projected confidence in the man's stance, but uncertainty in the slight tilt of his head. There. That weakness. He smiled, a mirror to the other man's smile. "You were so convincing as Rich. And well—" he laughed, "you have to admit, my life before that was a bit... crazed."

"Sherlock," he purred, and in another place and another time—if it weren't for John, and if it weren't for the frankly alarming lengths he'd taken to get Sherlock here, right now—Sherlock might have been intrigued. Good. He could use that. "I saved you."

Sherlock stepped closer, halving the distance between them. "Tell me."

"Come and sit down." Rich gestured to one of the two chairs in the living room. "Would you like some tea, a drink?"

"Thank you, no." Sherlock sat down, expecting Rich to sit across from him. He didn't, but paced in front of Sherlock.

"London," he said abruptly. "I'm not surprised you don't remember, to be honest. You were... indisposed."

"High," Sherlock guessed.

"Yes." Rich smiled down at him. "Got your attention though. I'd been watching you at that party all night. I could tell you were looking for someone. You were so alone, Sherlock, and so was I. I walked up to you and told you how much I loved you and you—well you put your arm around me." He knelt by Sherlock's chair and trailed a finger up Sherlock's arm. He tilted his head and looked up at Sherlock, coy. "If you hadn't been so wrecked, I think we both know where we would have wound up."

Sherlock smiled and covered the hand with his own. It stopped the movement, gave a suggestion of reciprocity. "That sounds like me," he said.

"And I think you knew the chance you missed, because the next day you went into rehab." He stood abruptly and walked around behind the chair, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "You got clean for _me_, Sherlock. I was so proud of you."

A chill went through Sherlock's body and he passed it off as a different sort of shiver. "You still haven't told me what to call you."

"Well of course, I couldn't enter rehab under my real name," Rich said, straightening and circling to the front of the chair. "Not even if it was just to look after you. Too damaging to my career. But you know that, don't you? You know the industry: when the talent goes into rehab it's newsworthy, but when management does, it's a secret."

Lower level management, then. Not much above entry-level. "Management, so you're—"

"Jim Moriarty." He gave a little wave of his fingers. "Hi."

* * *

John made the train with time to spare. As he took his seat, he felt the fog of too much adrenaline and not enough sleep settle in his brain. A nap on the trip then. He leaned his head back against his seat and closed his eyes.

When the alarm went off, he was confused, groggy. It didn't sound like the bedside alarm at all. It sounded like his phone. By the second ring, the sounds of the train had reoriented him. John fumbled for his phone with sleep-heavy fingers, nearly dropping it. He managed to grab it and flip it open just before voice mail answered. "Yeah?"

"John? It's, uh, it's Greg."

The grogginess vanished and John sat up straight. "What's happened?"

"We—um." Greg cleared his throat. "We don't know where Sherlock is."

John felt his stomach drop and his mind slip into a state of icy calm. "As of when?"

"I don't know when. We—we were setting up for the show. He was in the bar, I swear—"

"When did you realise he was gone?" John bit off each word with precision. "How long ago?"

"Twenty minutes? Anderson opened his guitar case and found a note."

"What? What does it say?" John switched the phone to his other hand, turning towards the window to keep his conversation quieter.

"'When John gets here, tell him to meet me at this address. -SH' Then there's an address underneath." Greg paused, then sounded hesitant. "It looks like his handwriting."

"Yeah, it looked like mine on the receipt too. _Fucking hell_." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Did you call him?"

"Three times. It's just going to voice mail," Greg said.

"Is anything in the bar knocked over, like there was a struggle? Did anyone see anything?" John reached for his bag, felt for the weight of the Sig Sauer and the ammo. It made it easier to concentrate, to breathe.

"No. One of the house techs saw him backstage but—" Greg paused again. "It... looks like he just walked out."

"Okay. Listen. I should be at the station in..." He looked at his watch. "Fifteen minutes. Give me the address again. Oh hell. Nothing to write with. Text it to me."

"John, what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to meet him there."

* * *

**Notes:** Chapter title is from "Sin" by Nine Inch Nails.


	8. Don't Take it Away from Me

**AN:** I am SO sorry this update has taken so long. Aside from RL issues (including the death of my laptop) this chapter nearly killed me. I absolutely could NOT have finished it without constant handholding and support from my lovely betas ardatli and greywash and without the John-related insights and encouragement from abundantlyqueer. If you enjoy this chapter, thank them. If you hate it, blame me. :) There has also been an absolute explosion of fanart for this story (eeee!). See my Tumblr for more info on that!

_Chapter title is from "Terrible Lie", Nine Inch Nails_

* * *

**Chapter 8: Don't Take It Away from Me**

Before ringing off, John told Greg, "If you haven't heard from me within an hour, call the police." Greg wanted to call them right then, but John insisted. "Greg, I don't know what Sherlock's walked into. I'll go, I'll assess the situation, and decide what to do then." It sounded clinical, but clinical was what John needed to be. Even if he felt certain that by "assessing the situation" he really meant "conduct a one-man rescue mission." Given his experience with the American police so far, John didn't want to trust them with Sherlock's life.

John left the station and found a cab outside. He gave the driver the address. "Actually—is there a DIY shop nearby?" Wait, that wasn't right. "Er, home improvement?"

"Sure."

"There first, please." He managed a smile, and it might have even looked convincing. He took a moment to curse the timing of Greg's phone call. If he'd had a chance to make it to the club he could have taken the equipment he needed from their own supplies, but now there was no time for a trip back, no time for a round of explaining and arguing and handholding. He sat back against the bench seat and mentally started compiling a list of what he'd need. _Duct tape, a torch, a utility knife, a hammer—Sherlock, what where you _thinking_?—wire cutters, bolt cutters? Christ I wish I knew what I was planning to break into..._

* * *

"Jim Moriarty. Hi."

Sherlock had never heard the name before, but Moriarty—no, _Jim_—clearly expected that he had. "Of course." Another forced smile. "I know you."

"I wondered what would happen—when the money went missing," Jim said. He flashed a brilliant smile at Sherlock and resumed pacing in front of him. "Very clever, to give me a way to contact you directly. I did worry, briefly, that you might send your watchdog after me, that I'd misread you..." His eyes darkened. "That would have made me very unhappy."

"I would have contacted you sooner, if I'd known how," Sherlock said, leaning forward in the chair, putting on a display of eagerness. "I couldn't find you. You made it so difficult." There, a hint of a sulk to make his words believable.

"I tried, Sherlock," Jim said, his expression shifting to sorrowful lightning-quick. "I wanted to take care of you, but Harry Watson wouldn't let me manage the tour. Oh no, she passed over _me_ in favour of her brother. Her stupid fucking brother who doesn't know the first thing about the music business." Jim turned and slammed his hands onto the armrests to either side of Sherlock, inches from his face. "That job was_ mine_! I would have taken such good care of you." His eyes roamed over Sherlock's face restlessly. "Bad enough he took my job," Jim continued, his voice lowering, "but then you let him fuck you. Honestly, Sherlock." Another quick-change to a rueful smile that went nowhere near his eyes. "What_ am_ I going to do with you?"

"I'm sure you have some ideas," Sherlock said, reaching up to trail his fingertips over Jim's jawline. He swallowed against a throat gone suddenly dry and pitched his voice low. "Jim, why don't I send him home? We can give the money back—I don't want to see him completely destroyed—then we convince Harry to hire you in his place. He really doesn't know what he's doing, you're right. Has no business being here."_ Please let this work._

"And I thought you liked him," Jim teased, straightening up and pulling Sherlock to his feet.

"So did he," Sherlock said, putting on one of his best smiles. "It made him much easier to work with." He caught Jim by one of his belt loops, tugging him closer. "As long as you and I each get what we want, let him go. He's harmless." Smiling and dismissing John was twisting knife in his gut.

They were close enough now that Sherlock could feel Jim's breath against his skin as he looked up at Sherlock. "And what do you want, Sherlock?"

_To wipe that smirk off your face_. He still smiled. "I'm sure you can figure it out."

"Yes, I'm sure I can." Jim leaned in and brushed his mouth against Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock resisted the urge to pull away. When Jim started moving his lips, Sherlock fought against shoving Jim away, made himself sag a little, made himself give a little sigh.

"Once your little toy soldier has gone home, maybe we can return the money then. But I want him gone. And once he is, we can talk about... well, the future." Jim reached up to touch Sherlock on the cheek, just lightly. "Because we do have a future, Sherlock. I'm sure of it."

Sherlock drew away from Jim and smiled as if he'd suddenly had a brilliant idea. "We should go back now. Together. I don't want to hide anymore." He was gratified to see Jim look surprised. This would work. He could get Jim to take him and the money right back to John. "We'll tell them—we'll tell them I took the money, as a prank." Before he could stop to think about it, he leaned in and kissed Jim, then spun away, talking rapidly. "It's not fair to you, hiding like this. You deserve better. You deserve for everyone to know how you feel, how I feel. Don't you see? We don't have to wait anymore! We could—"

"Sherlock." Jim's voice was flat. "I have a plan already."

"It's a fantastic plan," Sherlock said, "but if we could just—" His words were cut short by Jim grabbing his arm hard, pulling him around so they were face to face once more.

"I have a plan." Jim enunciated each word. His grip tightened until Sherlock winced. Then Jim smiled, letting him go to reach down to take Sherlock's hand gently, drawing him across the room to a doorway. "Remember where we started. It's fate, Sherlock. I've known from the first moment I saw you."

Sherlock felt the bruised ache throbbing in his arm as he followed after Jim. _Oh, John. _A sudden tremor hit, threatening to betray an unexpected rush of fear. _I might have made a terrible miscalculation._

* * *

It was dark when the cab dropped him off at the cross-street. John was a little surprised to see a residential neighbourhood. The cabbie assured him the address was on the street ahead of him, but John could see how vacant the street was. Even with the chill and the darkness, there should be more signs of life than this. An abandoned neighbourhood, then—that was more in line what with he'd expected: remote and uninhabited. The right house wasn't difficult to pick out; there was only one house that had any lights on at all.

He waited just behind a light pole, studying the street until the cab drove away. The streetlights had seen better days: only a few of them still worked, so he had that much in his favour. That was nearly all he had in his favour. An empty street, no cars, no real trees or hedges to speak of—there was no cover to conceal his approach to the house.

It made John more cautious than he might have otherwise been. Beating at the back of his head was the drive to win—a familiar, almost comfortable feeling he'd always associated with combat. After passing two empty houses, John detoured into the back garden of the third. None of the gardens had fences, which gave him a clear line of sight to the target. Empty houses meant no motion-sensor lights to track his progress. He knelt down and unzipped his bag. The circumstances were familiar, but this time there was something new: a drive to punish, to take back something (some_one_) that was stolen, powered by instinct, possessiveness, fear of loss.

Long years of practice and control made him lock his thoughts down tight without examining them, instead tugging his jacket off and pulling the shoulder holster into place, resettling his jacket over it. He automatically went through the process of loading the Sig, clicking the magazine into place. He checked the safety, then tucked the gun into the holster and pulled his jacket down to cover it. The bag from the DIY came next. John tore open the packaging of a utility knife, tested the blade, then retracted it and tucked it into the left-hand pocket of his jeans. Everything else could wait.

John stayed close to each building as he crossed the gardens, pausing before darting to the edge of the next house. Halfway there, he drew the gun and flicked the safety off. Two houses to go. He could see a square of light shining from a large window into the back garden ahead of him.

* * *

"The first time we met, do you remember?" Jim asked.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway, looking into a spacious kitchen, gleaming and largely empty. "At the party," he said. "Before I went into rehab."

"Oh... perhaps a little before that," Jim said with a little smile. Before Sherlock could respond, Jim tugged him further into the kitchen and nudged him towards the kitchen table. "Sit down. We'll chat while I make dinner."

"You're going to... cook?" Sherlock sat down, angling to keep an eye on the hallway and on Jim. He tried to think how long it had been since he'd left the club, tried to guess if John's train had come in yet. Would he call the police, or would he just come storming in by himself?

"Of course," Jim said, opening a shopping bag and drawing out brand-new utensils, a frying pan, and a large pot. "Isn't that romantic enough for you?" He smirked.

"Lovely," Sherlock said. "I don't think anyone's done that in ages."

"Sherlock, you seem distracted. Were you expecting someone?" Jim gave him a beaming smile when Sherlock turned to look at him. "You don't have to worry. You're safe here. There's no way anyone can get into this house without me knowing. No one is going to take you away from me. But if someone does show up... well." He hummed thoughtfully as he pulled onions and green peppers from the bag. "No, I don't think anyone will."

* * *

When he got to the house, John surveyed the possible entrances. There was a darkened sliding glass door on the opposite end of the house from the lighted window—likely locked and likely too heavy to break through. Based on the height, John thought the lighted window might be the kitchen, just over the sink. He eyed the darkened windows at the other end of the house, trying to pick the right one.

John's jaw tightened as he crept around the corner of the house toward the side. One of the windows on this side was just a little smaller, just a little higher from the ground. A quick look inside confirmed his suspicions: a bathroom, just what he wanted. He tucked away the gun, put the bag down and opened it, drawing out a roll of duct tape then the knife from his pocket. John took another cautious look around—nothing and no one in sight. He covered the entirety of the glass with the tape, blocking the window with a thick silvery layer, then shrugged out of his jacket and held it to the tape. He struck the window with a small hammer. There was a faint crunch as the glass broke, but the tape held.

One good yank and the shattered windowpane came out of the frame in a single tape-covered mass.

* * *

When he heard the first tiny thump, Sherlock thought he was imagining it. Jim was chatting away as he diced veg and opened packets. Sherlock had been listening to him complain about how no one in the music business appreciated Jim's genius for probably twenty minutes. It had been dull after the first twenty seconds. But he needed to stay on track, to let Jim think he had won. He asked questions, wore his best "you are the centre of my universe" face, usually reserved for industry flacks and especially dull parties. It was working. Sherlock now knew that Jim had worked for Sherlock's management company for two years but had been fired when Jim pushed too hard to get the job as Sherlock's tour manager ("They lacked the _vision_ to see what I could offer you, Sherlock."). Two years. What had Sherlock done in that time? Had he smiled? Flirted? Sherlock couldn't remember him at all.

Then there was a second sound, just the faintest bit louder. _John_. Sherlock kept from looking in the direction it was coming from. He stood up and walked over to lean on the counter next to where Jim was working. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Whether he was squatting or had rented the place, Jim hadn't been there long; the cupboards were completely empty. Jim gestured with the knife in his hand towards the pot. "You could start water boiling, that would be lovely."

Sherlock leaned in and kissed Jim on the corner of the mouth.

"And what was that for?" He smiled up at Sherlock, who managed a return smile.

"For this," Sherlock gestured. "Not just dinner... I didn't realise how badly I needed to get away. You can't _imagine_ how tedious it gets. And having to smile, and pretend. Now getting away, being here with you, it's all I can think about, frankly."

Jim preened a moment before turning his attention back to his knifework. "I told you, I know you. I know exactly what you need."

* * *

Getting the bag through the window was the trickiest part to getting inside. John carefully lowered it to the tile floor through the empty windowpane. Then, covering the bottom of the frame with his jacket, he hauled himself up, shoulders straining for just a second until his balance shifted and he was able to swing over. John landed on the floor almost silently, crouching to retrieve his bag as he listened for approaching footsteps.

There were none. Beyond the open door there was only more darkness. John drew the gun and crept out, straining to hear something, _anything,_ that would give him a clue about Sherlock's whereabouts and condition. He heard voices and moved closer in a slow crouch, breathing silently through his open mouth. He heard laughter as he got closer, two men, and one of them was definitely Sherlock. John held his breath to listen more closely, then took a few more steps in the direction of the sound. The laughter subsided, and he heard nothing but the murmur of normal conversation. Whatever was happening, Sherlock wasn't in immediate danger. Good.

John moved silently to the front door, where he undid the bolt and unlocked the doorknob. At the top of the door was a small plastic device, set across the frame and the door: a cheap, battery-powered alarm that would trigger if the door was opened. John rolled his eyes. It took almost no time to do a quick sweep of the house. Two bedrooms, both empty. Living room, empty. Dining room, empty. There were tripwires under each of the larger windows, all too close to the wall to do any good. Under other circumstances, John might have laughed. All that remained was the kitchen.

Keeping the gun angled at the floor and ready, John stepped towards the kitchen doorway, sticking close to the wall.

* * *

"Honestly, did no one ever teach you how to chop onions?" Sherlock laughed, watching Jim struggle with the knife. The back of his neck was prickling with the certain knowledge that John was in the house, John _must_ be in the house, and so Sherlock had to keep Jim from noticing. What was taking him so long? At least five minutes had passed since the thumps. What was John doing?

"Rude!" Jim said. "That's no way to talk to someone who's making you a home-cooked meal. When was the last time you ate something that didn't come from a packet or a cafe?"

"It's been a while," Sherlock admitted.

"You don't eat enough, darling; you never have." The possessiveness in Jim's voice set Sherlock's teeth on edge.

"Maybe it's because I didn't have anyone to cook for me before." Sherlock leaned against the counter and smiled lazily up at Jim, straining to hear the faintest sound beyond the kitchen door.

"Well then. Good thing you do now." Jim scooped up the irregularly chopped onions and dropped them into the pan. The sharp, mouthwatering smell of frying onions filled the kitchen. "Damn," Jim said. "Can you get the wine, darling? It's over on the table."

He sounded so... _normal_. Sherlock walked over to retrieve the bottle. Near the doorway, he heard—barely—the faintest hiss. Sherlock didn't turn to look until he'd picked up the bottle and turned to walk back. John was there, in the shadows just outside the doorway. He put a finger over his lips, motioning for Sherlock to stay quiet, but Sherlock's heart was beating so loudly he was sure it would give him away. He turned away found a corkscrew amidst the chaos of the kitchen counter. When he finished uncorking the bottle, he glanced over to find Jim watching him with a small, secret smile.

"Come here, Sherlock."

* * *

Having Sherlock walk suddenly into view was an unexpected stroke of good luck. Hopefully now when John stepped into the kitchen, Sherlock would know to get out of the way rather than being frozen in surprise.

John strained to hear what was happening, and there was no mistaking what he heard: the sound of mouth on mouth; an open, wet sound; a quiet little 'mm' from one of the two. He clenched his jaw until the kiss ended, then waited, wanting to be sure Sherlock was out of the line of fire.

"Come on out now, Johnny boy. It is John, isn't it?" The voice was soft but clear; John had a hard time placing his accent. "I thought I heard you come in. It's usually more polite to knock, you know."

_Shit. _He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and swung around the doorway, gun in both hands. Sherlock tried to get out of the way, a jump to the side that was halted when the man grabbed him around the waist. Now he was largely hidden behind Sherlock, so John couldn't get a clean shot. "Let him go and step away," John ordered.

"Good, very good," the man said. "Impressive." He nuzzled at Sherlock's shoulder with a casual possessiveness that made John's jaw clench. "Sherlock, you should have known better. I know you. You can't fool me. Did you forget? I spent thirty days sitting across from you in group therapy. I know everything about you." The last sentence was a teasing sing-song that made John's hair stand on end. "I could tell that something had surprised you. What else could it have been?" He looked up at Sherlock, wearing a grin that looked too stretched, wrong. "Why don't you introduce us properly?"

"John, this is Jim Moriarty. We met in London before—well, before." Sherlock smiled thinly, and John didn't have to ask "before what". "Jim, this is John Watson, my—" _don't provoke him_, thought John "—tour manager."

"More than a tour manager, I hear," Jim said. "How does your boss feel about that, John?"

John kept the gun trained on Jim. "Well, I don't think Harry was surprised—"

"Not Harry," Jim said. "That's not who you're working for. That's an impressive gun you have, John. Does Sherlock know where it came from? Because I do."

John kept his hands steady. "Do you."

Jim smiled, flat-eyed. "What does Mycroft Holmes think about," he glanced sideways at Sherlock, the tip of his tongue flicking out over his lower lip, "what you've been getting up to with his baby brother?"

John glanced at Sherlock, whose face was perfectly still, a mask that gave nothing away, not so much as a twitch of his eyebrow. "It's not any of his business," John said. "Or yours."

Jim pounced. "So you _are_ working for him."

"John?" Sherlock's voice was uncharacteristically soft, uncertain. "Is that true?"

John met Sherlock's eyes for a long moment. The expression on Sherlock's face was unmistakable: mouth drawn into a slight pout, eyebrows drawn down. It read as hurt, vulnerable, upset. His eyes, however, were steady. Calm.

John understood, and fell into the role of pleading lover. It wasn't much of a stretch; he'd been dreading this conversation—or some version of it—for weeks now. "Sherlock—I—"

"Oh, you've been a bad boy, Johnny," Jim said. John could hear the glee in his voice. "Tell him. Tell him everything."

John snarled at him. "It's your fault. He was worried about Sherlock." He looked back to Sherlock, his voice softening. "It didn't start that way. He didn't contact me until after Detroit."

"John... you _lied_ to me," Sherlock said. John had a split second to worry then shoved it away. _Worry later, get him out of here now. _"I asked you, and you said no."

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Jim starting to relax. He was smiling broadly, stroking Sherlock's hip. "You see, Sherlock? He doesn't deserve you."

"It wasn't a lie," John said. "Technically, I mean. He hasn't paid me."

Sherlock laughed, and the sound was bitter. This was going to sting later, when John stopped to let it. "That's all it is? He hasn't paid you yet, so it doesn't count?" His eyes were on John's, then cut to the side towards Jim.

"How much did you sell him out for, John?" Jim asked. The greedy way he clung to Sherlock made the edges of John's vision go white.

"It wasn't like that!" It was easy to shout, to fake a bit of a tremor in his hand. "You don't understand." John gestured with both hands on the gun, levelling it more firmly at Jim's head, and he could see the exact moment that Jim's focus finally shifted to John, the flicker in his eyes when he finally paid attention to the fact that John was pointing a gun at him.

Sherlock must have seen it too. He threw his elbow back into Jim so hard that John could hear Jim grunt as the bony point connected and Jim doubled over. Sherlock tried to dart away, but Jim kept his grip. When Jim lifted his head, his face had changed utterly: the amiable smile was gone and replaced with black-eyed murder.

John said, "_Sherlock_," as Jim's hand went back to the counter behind him. John fired the Sig almost before he saw a flash of metal in Jim's hand. Jim's right kneecap vanished in a burst of blood and he fell screaming, the knife he'd grabbed clattering to the floor. John stepped forward and kicked the knife out of reach, keeping the gun trained on Jim.

"John," Sherlock said.

"It's fine," John said. "Toss me my bag. It's around the corner in the corridor. You still have your phone? Call an ambulance." To Jim, who was rocking back and forth screaming obscenities, he said, "Shut up and be still. You're not going to die." He dropped to one knee, and with the gun in one hand, did a quick patdown to look for any other weapons.

Sherlock tossed the bag over, then said, "I'll call from the other room. It's... loud in here." He flashed John a shaky grin that John couldn't help but return. Later John would feel relief. Now there were still things he needed to do. He rummaged in his bag for the first aid kit—the one he'd used on Irene, not so long ago, thanks to the man moaning on the floor in front of him.

He'd just pulled out a pair of gloves and some gauze when John saw the small remote, the kind you might use to start your car, clutched in Jim's bloody fingers. Jim smiled, beatific. "He's mine. You can't have him."

Realisation dawned in an agonising crawl. John threw himself backwards away from Jim, trying to scrabble to his feet. "Get out! Sherlock, run!" John yelled. _He wasn't wired, there was no way he was wired; where was it—where had he planted it—_

John looked back to see if Sherlock had made it to the door. He heard Jim's soft laugh, then a shattering roar ripped through the room and he couldn't hear anything else.


	9. Too Far to Get Home

_Chapter title is from "Would?" by Alice In Chains_

* * *

**Chapter 9: Too Far to Get Home**

Sherlock was lying face-down on wet grass with no immediate recollection of how he got there. There was a noise; he knew that noise. After two seconds he recognised the sound as the crackle of flames, and then he remembered everything. _John. Where was John? _He rolled over, the damp soaking through his t-shirt. Sherlock tried to scrabble to his feet, looking around for John. He couldn't see the flames, but he could see smoke rising from the back of the house, towards the kitchen.

He couldn't think. _Think, damn it. _Panic was clawing up the inside of his throat, strangling thought. He'd been supposed to make a phone call. Stumbling around the house looking for John, Sherlock dialled 911—the three numbers drilled into all of them since Irene's injury—and waited to give the address. An explosion, two people inside. _Hurry._ He ran back to the front door and looked inside. The living room wasn't engulfed in flames, but it was filled with smoke. Sherlock stayed at the front door, shouting John's name, trying not to panic further when he got no response.

* * *

Everything hurt. What wasn't stinging felt bruised. The air was stifling, chokingly hard to breathe, and nearly silent. Within a heartbeat, everything came back—the remote control, the sudden roiling fear in his gut. John rolled to his hands and knees. Where was Sherlock?His head felt like it was underwater and everything was distant. Hearing damage. _Shit. _Jim was across the kitchen where John had left him. Conscious or not, John couldn't tell, but he could see Jim's chest rising and falling with each breath.

He turned and started crawling for the front door, where he'd last seen Sherlock, staying below the worst of the smoke. He thought he heard his name, but he wasn't sure. John took a breath to shout back, coughed, tried again. "I'm all right, I'm here!" He knew he'd screamed as loud as he could, but he heard little more than a whisper.

There were flames flickering along the walls of the kitchen, climbing over paint and drywall. He could just make out a familiar shape in the doorway, just outside of the house. This time there was no mistaking the faint sound of his name being called. Sherlock was outside of the house, well enough to stand and shout for John. He was okay.

John started to crawl for the front door as fast as he could, then paused. He looked towards Sherlock, standing in the smoky doorway calling for him, then looked back towards the kitchen, which was growing hotter by the second. John's conscience tugged hard at him, but more than that he didn't want to let Jim Moriarty out of his sight. "Goddamn it," he muttered, and turned back around.

* * *

_What the hell was John doing? _Sherlock crouched near the open front door and watched as John turned away and crawled back towards the flames. "John!"

Sherlock steeled himself to follow him into the house. Before he could, there were lights flashing, people talking to him, pulling him away from the doorway, away from John. Sherlock ignored them, keeping his focus on the front door.

The firefighters arrived a few moments later. When John crawled out of the house, dragging Jim behind him, Sherlock remembered how to breathe. Firefighters in full gear ran past the two men while one of the EMTs crouched over Jim. Sherlock followed, brushing off the woman cleaning a cut on his forehead.

Sherlock's heart thudded in his ears as he skidded to his knees in front of John, who was kneeling with his head down, coughing. He had burns on his arms where bits of debris must have fallen, and places where his hair was singed away from his scalp.

"John." John didn't respond. Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and John lifted his head. His face was covered in soot and sweat, and a sudden, wide grin. Sherlock grinned back even as he fought the urge to shake John. He settled for, "You _idiot,_" and pulled him close and kissed him. John tasted like smoke and sweat and he winced as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock. They clung to each other, and Sherlock would have kept kissing John for possibly days, but John leaned away and started coughing again.

The woman who'd been treating his cuts came over to start taking care of John. Sherlock sat back on his heels, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was. He barely even argued when he was bundled into the ambulance.

* * *

In between nurses and doctors coming into the hospital room to poke and prod at him, Sherlock faced questioning by two detectives, which he bore with as good a grace as possible. Given the events of the evening and the fact that no one would tell him anything about John, 'as good a grace as possible' wasn't terribly good.

"Mr Holmes," said the older of the two, "can you explain to us again how you wound up in that house? You went there of your own free will?"

Sherlock thudded back against the bed with a frustrated sigh. The fact that he was sitting here at all was ridiculous. Thanks to John's warning, he hardly had more than a scratch or two on him, skin barely more than reddened by the fire. "Yes," he said, managing not to grit his teeth.

"To your stalker," the detective repeated.

"He had stolen money from our tour, and I thought I might be able to get it back." He gave the man's partner—younger, and clearly aware of who Sherlock was—the most winning smile he could manage. He hoped it didn't look like a snarl under the circumstances. "I thought perhaps I could charm it out of him."

The older partner cleared his throat. "Yes, er, and you left a message for your—your tour manager as to where you'd be?"

"You can say 'boyfriend', it's fine, Detective," Sherlock said. "And I'd appreciate it if someone could tell me how he is."

"We'll find out for you as soon as we're finished here," the older man said. "Now, er, who was it who had the gun, initially?"

"John did," Sherlock said. "He has the paperwork to carry it."

"And he shot Mr Moriarty."

"The man who has been stalking me across the country and was reaching for a butcher knife, yes," Sherlock said. "John shot him in the kneecap. And as soon as we were both safe, he began administering first aid and instructed me to call 911."

"And then what happened?"

Sherlock gave in to the desire to roll his eyes. "The house exploded. John saw something and yelled for me to get out of the house. I did. I made it out right as it happened. I called 911 then, and while we were waiting for you lot to get there, John went ahead and pulled Jim Moriarty out of a burning house, saving his life. Any other questions?"

"We'll check up on your story about the stalking," the older of the two said.

With a forced smile, Sherlock said, "I'm sure John has a record of each of the police reports we've filed, and I'm sure the New Day Rehabilitation Centre in Omaha has a record of a Richard Brook staying there at the same time I was. He'll match Mr Moriarty's description. I also still have the notes and letters Mr Moriarty has sent me. Do you need me to provide you any further evidence against Mr Moriarty, or do you think you're _capable_ of continuing the investigation on your own?"

The detective closed his notebook. "No, that's fine for now."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "Now can you please ask one of the nurses where John is before I decide to go looking for him myself?"

"We'll ask for you," the younger partner said, and the two men left the room.

Just a few moments later, Greg walked in. "What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

"I'm fine, thanks for asking, no major injuries. How are you?" Sherlock said, settling back against the lumpy pillow. "Have you seen John yet? How is he?"

"I haven't seen him," Greg said, coming around to stand by Sherlock's side. "But the doctor came out and talked to us. He's fine. Some minor smoke inhalation, a few burns. They're finishing up some tests." His face was creased with fatigue and worry. "Sherlock, honestly. What the hell were you doing, running off like that?"

"God, is _everyone_ going to annoy me with pointless questions tonight?" Sherlock was able to relax a little, hearing that John was all right. He'd feel better after seeing for himself, though. "It's getting boring."

"If you weren't in a bleeding hospital bed I'd give you a boot up the arse," Greg said. "And you'd deserve it." Sherlock didn't respond, just sat and feigned patience. "Well?" Greg said. "Anything at all to say for yourself?"

"I was waiting to see if you were finished yelling at me."

Greg sighed, and Sherlock knew that meant he had won. "Fine. We'll come back to this later. Are you all right, really? I was, uh, there when they brought him in—the guy." He fiddled with the zip on his leather jacket. "Pretty fucking scary. Demanding to see you."

"Good," Sherlock said.

"In what universe is that considered _good_?"

"This one." Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He still had his trousers on, and the hospital gown over his chest. He untied the knot at the back of his neck and pulled the gown off, tossing it onto the bed.

"What are you doing? What do you mean 'good'?"

Sherlock leaned around the open door and grabbed his chart, scanning over it. Absently he said, "'Good' because he's clearly not interested in feigning sanity. Less likely the police will try to turn this around on John." He dropped the chart back into place and started scanning the room. "Now where did they put my clothes..."

* * *

At least the painkillers were working. John felt floaty, disconnected from most of reality. He kept replaying the sight of Sherlock kneeling on the ground next to him, clearly okay, clearly uninjured. It made waiting through poking and prodding and testing easier. A pair of policemen came to ask him questions. John answered them all, as best he could. They told him they were keeping the gun for evidence, and that he and Sherlock both would have to make a formal statement later. He got the distinct impression that the older of the pair disliked him for some reason.

The hospital bed wasn't the most uncomfortable thing John had ever lain on, but it wasn't anything luxurious, either. He shifted a little, trying to find an easier position. The oxygen tube hissing into his nose was the single greatest irritation at the moment: the plastic poking roughly at his nostrils, the dry air making his sinuses ache.

His throat felt like it had been sandblasted, his voice nearly unrecognisable to his own ears when he'd spoken to the nurses. John knew the hoarseness was a bad sign, but was grateful when the doctor decided not to intubate him. He'd gone through that after being shot and it wasn't something he cared to revisit. He closed his eyes and took stock: arms bandaged, part of his head bandaged. His hearing was better than it had been right after the explosion, but everything still sounded murky.

His first indication that he wasn't alone was the faint sound of his name. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, looking dishevelled and cross. John couldn't help but smile.

Before Sherlock could reach him, a nurse burst in. "Mr Holmes, you haven't been discharged yet."

"And I'm not going anywhere," said Sherlock, finally reaching John and nudging him with a hip so he could sit on the edge of the narrow bed. "I'm staying right here." He leaned down and kissed John—slow, open-mouthed, and thorough. Even John could hear the nurse's disgruntled huff as she tugged the curtain blocking the door closed. The opiate haze dulled John's senses, but even so there was a lingering rush of adrenaline and cheating death; the moment Sherlock's tongue touched his, John felt his cock twitch, sluggish but interested. He used both hands to pull Sherlock closer to him, nearly toppling them off the bed. It occurred to John that letting Sherlock actually climb _on_ the bed to lie on top of him might not be the best idea—in fact it might be a spectacularly _bad_ idea—but he was too high and too turned on to care.

Another tug and Sherlock was straddling him. "John. This is—" It was halfway between a groan and a question.

"Shut up," John answered, pulling Sherlock's mouth back down to his. God, his arms _hurt_ and his head _hurt_ but Sherlock was warm and was settling against him and John thought about the thin layers of gown and cheap hospital linens that kept them separate and thought even harder about moving them aside, but then Sherlock was biting his jaw and he couldn't think at all much less formulate a plan and—

"Jesus Christ, I can't leave you two alone for a minute!" John peered around Sherlock's shoulder to see Greg standing in the doorway, looking simultaneously amused and disturbed. "Are you both _trying_ to get arrested? Sherlock, get down. And if I see someone's cock I swear I'm sending you the fucking bill for my therapy."

"He started it," Sherlock muttered, but sat back up next to John. For his part, all John could do was grin.

"'He started it'," repeated Greg, "sure maybe, but he's also stoned off his head. Look at his _eyes_. You don't have that excuse."

"I'm not stoned," John said. "Besides, it was just a kiss."

"Right. Well if you two can keep your hands off each other for five minutes, there's some people out here who want to come visit," Greg said.

"Sure," said John, giving Sherlock a grin before settling back again and tucking a hand against the small of Sherlock's back.

Greg beckoned out into the hallway and in came Molly, Sally, and Anderson—John thought this was probably against some regulation or another, but when had that ever stopped Sherlock before? When the nurse stopped in to check on him, she frowned, but didn't ask anyone to leave. It took several minutes for John to reassure them all that he was fine—Molly in particular was upset—and by the time he was done he was drained. He laid back and closed his eyes while Sherlock told them everything.

"And then, instead of getting out of the burning building like a normal person," Sherlock was saying, "he turned around and _went back in_ to pull out a man he'd shot not ten minutes before." He looked down at John with irritated affection. "You weren't hurt before that, were you?"

"I wasn't going to leave him," John said. "I wanted to make sure I knew exactly where he was." He grinned up at Sherlock, suddenly feeling giddy. "You _kissed_ him, you prat. I'm surprised he didn't crawl out after you on his own."

"You'd have shot him again if he'd tried," Sherlock said, with an answering grin.

"To kiss you? Damn right." John felt his grin threatening to spill over into a giggle and he couldn't stop it. Then Sherlock was laughing with him, and something in John's chest loosened.

"I don't see how you can laugh at this," Sally said, folding her arms. "You both could have been killed."

John looked up at Sherlock, then over at Sally, feeling the giddiness subside. "We weren't, though," he said, speaking soft to keep from irritating his throat further. "That's why we're laughing." The fact that Sherlock understood that reaction... well.

"You're mad, the both of you," Sally said.

"As hatters," John agreed. The worst of the drug fog was starting to lift. "Oh shit. Did anyone call Harry yet?"

Greg said, "She called me. Apparently _she_ got a phone call about it from Mycroft Holmes. She said to tell you she's glad you're all right, that you're an idiot, and next time can you please wait until sunrise to have an emergency."

"Bloody hell." John rubbed at his forehead. "I guess the police really did check up on me. That was quick."

"I didn't ask how he found out," Greg said. "After she spent a bit telling me precisely how stupid she thinks you both are, she said she wants you both to call her."

Everyone stilled and looked to Sherlock. "I'm not cancelling," he said.

"No, but we're definitely going to have to postpone," Greg said. "The press are already going _mad—_you should see the mob waiting outside the hospital—and who knows what the courts here are going to make of this mess." He shook his head.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, glancing from Greg to the others.

"I don't understand," John said. "Sorry for what? You were fucking _kidnapped_; nobody expects you to just dive right back in."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, then Molly spoke up. "You're right, absolutely. But... we're all out of a job until the tour resumes."

"Shit," said John.

"Can't be helped," Sally said. "It's the nature of the business."

John glanced up at Sherlock and saw he looked as guilty as John felt.

* * *

By the time John was released—nearly twelve hours after Sherlock, who had refused to leave John's side—it was well into the next day. John was exhausted and sore and irritated. There had been an emergency conference call with the two of them and Harry and Mike Stamford just after 11pm. If John had to guess, they were both still in their pajamas, if they'd gone back to bed at all once the news broke. The tour was officially on hold, and everyone would be heading back to England in the next day or so.

Everyone except John, who was restricted from flying for two weeks thanks to his injuries. Sherlock had argued about staying—in fact, it taken up the bulk of the conference call—but Mike insisted that he come back to help with the investigation into Jim Moriarty's time as an employee with the company.

Neither John nor Sherlock said much on the cab ride back to their hotel; they sat side by side, hands resting next to each other on the bench between them. By the time they got to their room, the events of the previous thirty-six hours, and the resulting lack of sleep, hit John squarely between the eyes. He stumbled over and collapsed face-down on the bed, not even bothering to take off his jacket. He was dimly aware of Sherlock helping take off his shoes, then his jacket, and gently urging him up along the bed until his head was on the pillow.

Awareness faded for a time, then drifted back on the scent of hotel shampoo. He cracked one eye open and saw Sherlock leaning on his elbow, watching him with a curious expression. His hair was in damp ringlets around his head and his skin still gleamed with traces of moisture. John licked his dry lips, then swallowed. "How long did I sleep?"

"Not long," Sherlock said, the sound a murmur to John's ears. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

John rolled to his side, ignoring the lingering pain across his arms and scalp. "Come here." His voice was still rough-edged. Talking was an effort. He pulled Sherlock down to him and rolled back just enough to give Sherlock space to curl against John's shoulder. John brushed his lips against Sherlock's damp hair and murmured, "You're a bastard, you know that, right? I got off that train thinking I'd already lost you."

"I'm here," Sherlock said, and turned to raise his mouth to John's. It wasn't like the kiss in the hospital. The adrenaline had long since faded, but the same thrum of the near-miss was there. John breathed in the scent of shampoo and soap and clean skin as Sherlock pressed him back against the pillow . Sherlock was murmuring as he dragged his mouth against John's jaw and down over his neck, but it was too quiet for John to pick up the words. The surreal quiet only contributed to the dream-like state left by opiates and the lack of sleep and the adrenaline crash. John felt a floaty sense of bliss as Sherlock slowly undressed him, tugging away jeans and t-shirt and everything else until he lay goosepimpled against the sheets.

When Sherlock came back and settled against him it was bare skin against bare skin down the length of their bodies. John groaned and pulled Sherlock until he was directly over him, wrapping him tight in his arms and legs. His arms were bandaged heavily enough to block most direct contact, but John could still feel a little bit of Sherlock's warmth through the wrappings. As Sherlock lowered his head to John's neck and began to bite, John held him there with fingers twined in Sherlock's hair, while his other hand petted down Sherlock's side and back. The drugs still in his system were slowing down his response, turning it into an agonising tease. Sherlock was already hard against John's belly and John couldn't resist reaching between them to touch the enticing soft skin of Sherlock's cock with light, trailing fingers.

"_Please_," Sherlock panted against John's neck, grinding his hips against John's. The bite mark he'd left on John's neck stung, right where the collar of John's usual t-shirts would rest against it. Thinking of that, of feeling the slight irritation of cotton against the bruise for days to come, woke something in John's brain. He growled and rolled them both over.

"John, you're hurt—" Sherlock started to protest, but John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's cock. Sherlock broke off with a gasp and arched against him. John winced a little at the pressure of their bodies on his arm, but he didn't want to lose the sensation of nearly full-body contact.

"You were going to let me fuck you on that hospital bed, weren't you?"

Sherlock laughed breathlessly. "Well, I was willing to wait and let someone else stop us, at least." He met John's eyes; John could see that he was fighting the urge to flutter his eyelids closed as John stroked him, slow and steady—almost too slow. For a moment they stayed there, breathing together, the only movement the rising and falling of their chests and the slow slide of John's fingers.

"Wait," Sherlock said, and stretched over towards the bedside table. John took advantage of the change in position to drop his mouth to Sherlock's side, nipping at the long muscles pulled taut by the stretch before licking over to one nipple. Sherlock squirmed underneath him and laughed, the sound perilously close to a giggle. He thrust the bottle of lube into John's hand before fending off John's mouth. "What are you doing? That tickles."

John took the hint and fumbled at the bottle, but he couldn't focus enough to open it one-handed. Sherlock chuckled and took it from him. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

In response, John tightened his fingers in a slow, firm squeeze. "What do you think?"

Sherlock dropped his head back against the pillow in a low groan that John felt more than heard. He flipped open the bottle lid and poured some of the liquid into John's hand. He let it warm for a moment, then held himself up with one hand and reached back down between their bodies. He leaned down to kiss Sherlock before taking first Sherlock's cock in hand, then his own, shivering at the easy glide of skin against skin as he wrapped his hand around them both.

It was more difficult now, to keep the movement slow and teasing, when he wanted so much more. But John also wanted this: the sight of Sherlock sprawled lazily beneath him, relaxed but for the pace of his breathing and the fire in his eyes. John wanted to see every thought that went through Sherlock's head and know that each one was about him. He wanted to see how long he could tease them both before one or both of them lost his composure.

He wanted to see how long he could keep either of them from thinking about anything but this moment, in this bed.

Sherlock reached up to run his hands over John's shoulders, then tugged gently. "Come down here." John couldn't refuse him, and let Sherlock pull him down to his chest. The pressure was too much against the damaged skin of his arm, so he let go, wiping his hand on the sheet and letting his hips take up the slow, teasing rhythm. The full body contact had been thrilling before, now it was nearly overwhelming. With Sherlock's arms around his back, it was as if John's entire body were surrounded. John's hips picked up speed without a conscious decision on his part, and Sherlock's quiet moan made it impossible to stop.

His arms framed either side of Sherlock's head, his fingers digging into the mattress as he focused on Sherlock's now-fluttering eyelids. When he felt Sherlock's fingers bite into the tight muscles of his back, John nearly lost control, nearly lost himself to frantic rutting. Instead, he growled and nipped at Sherlock's jawline, focusing on making _him_ lose control.

It didn't take long, not when John started biting and sucking at Sherlock's neck. John gave over and let Sherlock set the pace, intent on drawing out every groan, every shudder he could. He could feel the heat coiling in his own belly, slow and heavy and held back. It didn't matter; what mattered was that Sherlock was arching underneath him, begging with each breath for John to ride him faster. John fastened his mouth to the tender rope of muscle at the base of Sherlock's neck and bit down just as Sherlock gasped and trembled, hot liquid slicking the skin between them even more.

John was close, but not close enough. He paused for a moment to kiss his way back to Sherlock's open, gasping mouth, and they breathed 'I love yous' and endearments into each other. Something dirty and hot flashed in Sherlock's eyes after a few minutes of recovery, the only warning John had. This time it was Sherlock who rolled them over and began sliding his way down John's body in a trail of nips and kisses. He paused at John's belly, tongue moving in slow, thorough strokes. John tilted his head back and bit his lip at the realisation that Sherlock was licking him clean. Sherlock didn't tease him beyond that, but crouched over him and slowly traced John's cock from the base to the tip. As John fought to keep from squirming, Sherlock changed direction and slid his lips around just the tip; John could feel that tongue—that clever, wicked tongue—swirling and teasing, and suddenly the heat in his belly surged higher, swamping his brain.

All John knew in those moments was hot, wet skin surrounding him, tongue and lips above, slick, grasping fingers below, working together to break John to pieces. He could barely hear the sounds he was making, head ringing with non-existent sound. His eyes were squeezed shut. All he could do was _feel_ and _smell_ and the deprivation of the three other senses turned each stroke, each breath of musky scent into suffocating bliss.

John was reaching a point of frustration, a point of 'oh god just let me come' when the short, sharp shock of pleasure fired across his nerve endings, down his legs and up his chest. He let each wave take him under, feeling more than hearing Sherlock's low, delighted moans with each spasm. John collapsed back against the bed, reaching down to pull Sherlock to him. Sherlock kissed him instead and retreated to the bathroom to clean up. When he came back, he flopped against John, lazily curling against his chest.

"I just need to know, Sherlock, what was your plan?" John asked, after they'd been quiet for several minutes. His head was clearer now; his eyelids no longer felt weighted down.

"I did have one," Sherlock said, sounding a little defencive. "He was going to bring me _and_ the money back to the club. It should have been simple."

"Simple?" John laughed, the sound harsh from his sore throat. "Short of knocking him over the head and dragging him back, I don't see how that was going to be simple."

"No, I said he was going to bring_ me_," Sherlock said. "I convince him that he'd won me over, and then convince him to bring back the money so there wasn't any trouble."

"Mm," said John, rolling on his side to look at Sherlock. "And it looked like it was working out well for you."

"Well, I didn't count on him being quite so crazy. Or quite so observant."

"I did warn you," John said, trying to suppress a smile. Sherlock wasn't looking at him, in fact seemed to be looking anywhere but at him.

"He followed me into rehab," Sherlock said, fingers plucking at the sheets. "I don't know how. But he arranged it."

"Wait." John reached out and caught Sherlock's hand, stopping the plucking motion. "He _followed _you? I thought that was where he'd met you."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, that was years earlier, from what he said. For years, he—watched me. God, I don't know how he managed without at least Mycroft catching on." John couldn't tell if he was contemptuous of Mycroft or impressed by Jim.

John paused, then cleared his throat. "We should... probably talk about your brother."

"We already did," Sherlock said, and John could see the wall going up. He wanted to tear it down, and quickly.

"Yes, in front of your deranged stalker. How about we talk about it for real?"

"You told me everything I need to know." Sherlock pulled his hand away, and that told John everything _he_ needed to know.

"You know, for someone as smart as you are, you can be an idiot sometimes, Sherlock."

"I'm really not," Sherlock said. "Anderson's been on my brother's payroll for nearly two years now. But I'm not close enough to Anderson. I knew it was only a matter of time before he approached someone else on the crew."

John took his hand again, and pulled gently. He reached over with a bandaged left arm to turn Sherlock to look at him. "What I said in that kitchen is true. Your brother called me the day after Irene's room was trashed. He heard about my background and thought I could help. He was _worried_ about you, Sherlock. That was the first time I ever talked to him. Yes, he sent me a gun, and I took it. Do you know why, you git? Because _I_ was worried about you too. And I was willing to take whatever help I could get, even if you didn't approve. He never offered to pay me. And he never asked me for any information about you."

Sherlock didn't say anything, and something clicked in John's head. "Oh my _god_. Sherlock, what the hell sort of relationship do the two of you have? Did you think he was paying me to—to get close to you?" Something worse occurred to him. "Did you start all this because you thought it would piss him off, to seduce one of his spies?"

There was a pause that was just a second too long. "Maybe at first," Sherlock said. "Maybe that was why I came on so strong at first, but... but that was before I knew you."

"Jesus Christ," John said, sitting up and rubbing his palms into his eyes. "So... you started out using me as a weapon against your brother, and he—obviously—is using me as a weapon against everyone else."

"John, it's not like that _now_, you have to see that." Sherlock followed him to sitting and draped himself over John's shoulders.

"Yeah, I do, I just—didn't get it before now." John leaned against Sherlock, thoughts clicking over one after another.

"Come lie back down," Sherlock said, tugging him back down to the mattress. "We're both exhausted." John didn't protest, and lay back to let Sherlock snuggle against him again. He lay there watching shadows across the ceiling for a long while after Sherlock's breathing evened out into sleep, finally letting his own eyes drift closed.

* * *

Two days later, they were standing in the same room saying goodbye for the second time in as many weeks. John already knew letting go was going to be harder this time.

"It's only for a couple of weeks," John said, pulling Sherlock closer and tightening his arms. Mycroft's name hadn't come up at all since that first night, but John couldn't stop poking at the issue in his own mind, trying to figure out the knotted relationship between the two brothers, and what his place in it was.

John thought Sherlock might still have questions of his own—their last two days had been slightly strained. The sex, ironically, had been better than ever, sparking off the edges of uncertainty and unspoken thoughts and the coming separation. Sherlock pulled away and leaned down to kiss John just once, lightly. "I wish I could stay. Emma says the press are going mad back home."

"I know," John said, but there was a question lingering in his gut. "Go home and tell them all about it. Better you than me." He smiled and ran the palm of his hand down Sherlock's cheek before letting him go. Sherlock didn't lean into the caress, but he smiled back. John waited until Sherlock had pulled away to pick up his baggage before frowning to himself.

"I wish I could tell them the truth," Sherlock said, shouldering his carry-on bag. "It doesn't seem fair to keep you out of it. I think everyone should know what you did."

John leaned over and picked up one of Sherlock's bags. "Well, the MOD frowns on members of the SAS getting their name and photo in the papers. It's probably for the best."

"You don't have to do that," Sherlock said, and took his bag from John. "Honestly, I'd rather say goodbye here."

"Then put that down and come here," John murmured, running his hands up Sherlock's arms. He tugged Sherlock down by the back of his neck and kissed him slowly, teasing licks here and there until Sherlock relented and wrapped his arms around John in return, giving in to the kiss until they were both breathless.

"John, I—"

"Shh." John kissed him again. "I'll be with you as soon as the doctor gives me the all clear." He smiled and ran his hand along Sherlock's jawline. "It could be sooner than they think. I've always been a fast healer." Sherlock's eyes were soft with misery, and John could read uncertainty in the crease of his forehead. "Hey," John said, giving him a little shake. "We'll make it through this." Sherlock nodded, but didn't look convinced. "Go on," John said. "Greg's going to think _I_ kidnapped you." It wasn't really funny, but Sherlock gave him a faint smile anyway.

After he left, John closed the door after him and leaned his forehead against it with a sigh.


	10. If the World Should Break in Two

_**AN: Yes, there are now 11 chapters instead of 10. Chapter 11 is nearly complete and should be up relatively soon!**  
_

_Chapter title is from "We're in This Together" by Nine Inch Nails_

* * *

**Chapter 10: If the World Should Break in Two**

In Nebraska they had warned him: the hardest part about staying clean would be breaking old routines related to using. Sherlock had thought he was prepared for that. While he had been in rehab, he'd let Mycroft move him into a new flat on Montague Street, the better to keep away from his old neighbourhood with the familiar places: now utterly entwined with the feeling of cocaine pounding through his bloodstream, or with the drowsy comedown of heroin. He'd even ditched some old friends who were still using, deleting them one at a time from his phone and email, although at the time he'd thought it wasn't necessary.

Now he wondered if he'd done enough. The first night without John, he'd hardly slept at all. The second night, he'd slept, only to be awakened by vague nightmares. Sherlock lay in his bed for several hours, staring up at the ceiling and trying to stop his racing thoughts to go back to sleep. He kept thinking of all the various things he could take that would make him sleep, mentally cataloguing the effects and side effects of each one. He lay there until he was certain he none of them were what he wanted. Then he gave up on sleep and went to make some tea.

It was cold in London, but he couldn't be arsed to build a fire in the fireplace. Normally after a tour he could sleep for days, and did, happily. Now he was exhausted, but his mind felt like an over-wound watch. Sherlock tucked his feet under his dressing gown and huddled around his mug of tea in near-darkness, only the light from the kitchen shining into the sitting room. He considered calling John. As early as it was, John would still be awake on the other side of the world. Twice Sherlock reached for his mobile, and twice he drew his hand back. John would only worry, and some perverse part of him wanted to avoid seeking comfort as long as could, like a test of willpower.

When the tea grew cold—he'd hardly bothered to drink any of it—Sherlock put the mug down so hard it slopped on to the table, and threw himself to his feet. The clock on the wall read 4:22, but he opened his violin case anyway. To hell with this. The neighbours would have to find out about his usual routine sooner or later. Sherlock ignored the music stand by the window in favour of the blank sheaf of staff paper lying on the nearby desk with the pencil next to it. He tuned the violin, so long neglected while he was abroad, rosined the bow and began to play at random, closing his eyes.

It helped, for a time. Eventually he even coaxed out a melody that was worth scribbling down. He hardly noticed when the sun came up. The knock at his door took him completely by surprise. He debated ignoring it, but whoever it was had heard him playing. Sherlock sighed and lowered the violin to its case and checked the peephole in the door. Mycroft was standing there, impeccably polished and pressed. Since he had actually knocked instead of just coming in, Sherlock decided to let him in.

"You look dreadful," Mycroft said, sweeping through the door. "Have you slept at all since you got home?"

"Good morning to you too, brother dear," Sherlock said. He sprawled lazily in his chair as a countermeasure to the careful, upright way Mycroft sat across from him, hands resting genteelly on his knees.

"Sherlock, I'm serious. Are you all right?"

"I'm _fine_," he said, grabbing at his abandoned mug of tea before remembering it was hours old. "Jet lag."

"You're sure?" With one arched eyebrow from Mycroft, Sherlock realised what he was suggesting.

"I haven't taken anything," he said, irritated. "Go ahead. Check my arms. Have me tested. You want me to piss in a bloody cup, Mycroft?"

And there was that smug, analytic stare that Sherlock always hated. "No. I believe you. It seems Captain Watson has been good for you."

"Is that why you hired him?"

"Sherlock, you know I didn't actually hire him." Mycroft crossed one knee over the other, and fussed with the crease in his trousers. "I would never have hired someone I thought you'd find... interesting." He gave Sherlock a prissy little smile and said, "Nonetheless, I can't find it in me to disapprove. Have you given any thought to what you'll do once he's recommissioned?"

"What?"

"A man of his abilities, I've no doubt the MOD wants him back," Mycroft said. "Surely you knew that might be a possibility?"

Sherlock stayed quiet, then coiled from lazy sprawl to crouching in his chair on his feet. "I hadn't considered the question." It was as much as he would admit to his brother.

"You should," Mycroft said. "You're a bit... colourful to be a military... partner. What might that do to his career?"

"You may be thinking a bit too far ahead," Sherlock said. A realisation hit. "Mycroft. Did you set this up for him?"

Mycroft paused, his demeanour softening. "Sherlock, I'm glad you're all right. When we heard—Miss Watson, Stamford and I—well. We were all shaken. I'm—" The sour smile came back, and Sherlock realised Mycroft was making a concession. "I'm glad Captain Watson was with you. I believe you're safer that way." Mycroft cleared his throat and rose to his feet, fussing with the line of his jacket. "If I'd had my way, the MOD would have forgotten that he existed." Another smile. "You'll call me if you need anything."

"Yes." For once Sherlock couldn't bring himself to needle his older brother. He didn't, however, actually show him out, He stayed crouched in his chair, thinking. He remembered the bitterness in John's voice when he first talked about his injuries, calling himself useless. He tried to think about what it might mean to John, to be back somewhere he felt he belonged. All it made Sherlock feel was slightly panicked, to think of John belonging anywhere else in the world but with him.

Sherlock shoved himself out of the chair with an impatient grunt, and went to go take a shower, staying there until the hot water was completely gone. Dry and wrapped in a fresh dressing gown, he checked his mobile and found a message from Emma Hudson, reminding him that he was filming an interview that afternoon for the next day's BBC Breakfast. He sighed and went to get dressed.

* * *

John was starting to go stir-crazy after two days on his own. He kept the television off after the first day—the American media were following the story of Sherlock's kidnapping and the explosion with their usual vapid, transfixed attention. It didn't help that Jim Moriarty had found a celebrity lawyer who was making the rounds of all the morning chat shows to talk about his client's sad story. John thought he might kick in the television screen if he heard once more that Sherlock had somehow led Jim on, encouraging him to follow Sherlock across America.

"It's not much better here," Sherlock said, when John called him. "_The Sun_ found someone who saw me flirting with him at a party the night I overdosed. "I'm sure you can imagine what they made of that." He sounded wry, but also utterly exhausted.

"Are you sure you're all right?" It was the second time John had asked.

"Of course I'm not all right," Sherlock said. "I'm bored to tears, there are photographers camped out on my doorstep, and you're still in America."

"But other than that, then," John said, smiling.

"Oh, other than that, everything's fantastic," Sherlock said with a faint laugh.

"Have you made any decisions about doing interviews?"

"I have one this afternoon," Sherlock said, "and I fully expect it to be unbearable."

"There's that streak of optimism I've come to know and love," John said.

"John, honestly. You haven't had to sit through one."

"All right, all right. Call me when you're finished?"

"I will," Sherlock said. "I miss you." There was a wistful note to Sherlock's voice, not something John could remember hearing before.

"I miss you too. I'll be home as soon as I can."

They rang off. John felt unsettled. There had been something off, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Maybe Sherlock's laugh had sounded wrong, or the slight sadness at the end of the call. He'd ask the next time they talked.

When John hadn't heard anything by 2pm—10pm UK time—he tried calling and got no answer. He left a message, then sent a text: **_Call me when you get this._** He called Greg and left him a message as well, resisting the urge to call the police because honestly, what would he say? _"I'm in America and my boyfriend was supposed to call me three or four hours ago."_ He spent the afternoon telling himself he was being ridiculous.

Harry called the next morning. "John! Are things as mad there as they are here?" She was much louder than she needed to be, and John held the phone away from his ear.

"Ouch, Harry. My hearing's much better now, thanks, no need to shout. Have you heard from Sherlock at all? He didn't answer my call last night."

"Hm, no," Harry said, "but I wouldn't, really."

"Can you have somebody check on him? I know I'm probably overreacting, but..."

"Not at all," she said. "We'll get someone over there."

"Let me know." He flopped down into the armchair by the window and sighed. "The story's still all over the telly, if that's what you were asking. My friends down at the front desk say there haven't been any more suspicious loiterers hanging about looking for me."

"You've your friends at the MOD to thank for that," Harry said. "We did what we could, but when we said 'no names or photos' the _Daily Mail_ started calling you Sherlock's mystery hero, 'an unnamed twenty-eight year-old former SAS captain with family ties to the music industry.' Last I heard, that got squashed fairly quickly."

"I'm surprised they didn't give out my shoe size." John sighed. "I saw the same thing here in another tabloid. I reckon they'll have a tough time getting access for royal-watching for a while, anyway."

"Don't let it get to you, John. Somebody will cheat on somebody else, or somebody's dress will fall off, and everyone will forget all about you."

"That's reassuring," John said, smiling in spite of himself. "Have you made a decision on the new tour dates yet?"

"Probably mid-March," Harry said. "Listen, before you ask me too much about that. I got a phone call for you this morning. From a Colonel Drummond—wasn't that—"

"Yeah, he is," John said, trying to ignore the sudden race of his pulse. "Did he say what he wanted?"

"Your number," Harry said. "After we confirmed he was who he said he was, I gave it to him. What do you think he wants?"

"Probably just to check in," John said, "see how I'm doing." _See if I want to come back._ There was no way they could put him back on the battlefield again, not with a bad knee and a dodgy shoulder, but that didn't mean there wasn't still a place for him with the SAS. He hadn't wanted to get his hopes up too much before now.

"John Watson, you're a terrible liar," Harry said. "He's going to offer you a job, isn't he?"

"Maybe."

"And you're going to take it. Figures, best damn tour manager I've hired in years, and you're going to swan off back to Her Majesty."

"Harry..." John paused. "That may not be what Drummond wants, and even if it is, I may not take it. Things have changed, a bit."

Harry sighed. "You know, I've had three other acts ask if you were available for their tours. Word gets about that you'll risk your life for your crew, that tends to make an impression. No pressure, but you could make a decent career at this, if you wanted."

"I'll keep that in mind," John said.

"You need to get out," she said. "Give it until tomorrow, and I'll see if we can get the last of the paps cleared off."

"I will, I promise."

They rang off, and John tossed his mobile onto the bed, scrubbing at his face with his hands.

* * *

It was the only interview they'd agreed to do since the attack, and the first UK interview since before Sherlock had gone into rehab. When Emma came to pick him up, she had a long list of dos and don'ts. He curled in the passenger seat of her small sedan and wished desperately for a cigarette, but he knew she hated it in her car.

"For goodness' sake, don't forget that this is a morning chat program, eh? They wouldn't pay us a bit of mind if you hadn't nearly gotten yourself blown up in the States. So be your most charming self, eh?"

"I know," said Sherlock. "Mind my language, answer the questions, let the solicitor handle questions about the case or about John."

Emma reached across the car and patted his arm. "You'll do fine. When is this young man of yours coming home, hm? I need to have a talk with him."

"Oh god, Emma."

"Don't 'oh god' at me. He saved your life, and from what I hear was quite taken with you. I think I'm entitled to meet him."

"He'll be home in a couple of weeks," Sherlock said. "I'll see if I can bring him round." A couple of weeks, that was all. He would be fine—he could _stay_ fine—for that long.

They were ushered onto a bright, cheery set after a quick run through hair and makeup, and settled on a long red couch. Emma stayed off to the side, Sherlock trying to relax next to the solicitor, whose name he couldn't remember. The presenter joined them with her notes, chatting to the solicitor. She was ginger and bubbly, and claimed to be a fan. Sherlock had a hard time imagining her listening to his music.

When the camera started rolling, her face grew serious and she was all business. Sherlock half-listened as she asked about the particulars of the case, which the solicitor handled. Sherlock was reminded of every dull dinner party he ever had to attend as a teenager. He tuned back in in time to hear her say, "Sherlock, how are you holding up?"

"Quite well, really," he said. "I was fortunate that I had the help that I did."

"It must have been terrifying," she said, eyes full of sympathy.

The lights were blindingly bright. He couldn't see what was beyond them, who was out there in the rest of the studio watching. "It was—frightening, yes." _God, shut up, don't tell her that._ He could see figures moving out in the darkness, but not who they were. Why did that bother him? It was nothing new. On the stage he usually couldn't see beyond the few meters.

The presenter had asked him something and he'd missed it. _Shit._ He snapped back to focus, and put on his best smile. "I'm so sorry, jet lag caught up to me for a moment." At least it wasn't live; maybe they'd edit that out.

She repeated, "Is this going to change anything about the way you perform?"

"Of course not. What happened had nothing to do with my performances." He was thinking about Jim, hiding in the dark of the audience night after night, watching him. Out there without Sherlock knowing about it. His heart started pounding in his temples and he tried to keep a smile on his face.

"Oh no, I didn't mean to imply that," she said. "But will it change security around you?"

"It's under discussion," Sherlock said, thinking now of John, wishing he were out in the dark of the studio. John would know who was there.

"Any changes to security will, of course, be a private matter," said the solicitor, stepping in smoothly.

"What are your plans now, Sherlock?"

There were eyes on him right now, eyes that he couldn't see, and it was making his skin crawl. "I'll be taking a short break from the American tour to get things sorted, then I'll finish the tour," he said, reciting a line Emma had given him in the car. "Then there are some shows coming up in Europe."

"Well, we'll look forward to seeing you perform back here at home soon," the presenter said, and wrapped the interview up. They all stood and Sherlock shook her hand before stepping out of the circle of the lights as quickly as he could. He was sweating now—of course he was, it had been hot under those lights—and his heart was still racing as he looked around. A few people were looking at him with mild interest, nothing more.

Emma appeared at his elbow. "All right, love?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just... warm in here." He managed a weak smile.

"Let's get you out of here; you still look exhausted."

He barely listened to Emma's chatter on the drive back to his flat. She was trying to pressure him again to go talk to somebody about what happened in California. He felt prickly and ill. He just wanted out of the car and back to the dim-lit comfort of his flat.

"Well at least let me get someone to stay with you," she said. "You shouldn't be alone right now."

"Alone is exactly what I need," he said. "I'll be fine." He reached over and took her hand bringing it to his lips with a grin. "If I'm not, I'll call. I promise."

"You're a terrible liar, Sherlock."

"I am not," he said, "I'm a very good liar. But I will be fine, honestly."

They had just reached his building. She sighed, and reminded him of his schedule for the next week. He fled back inside.

There was an unopened bottle of single malt scotch tucked into one of the kitchen cupboards; it had been a Christmas gift from one of the execs with the record label. Sherlock went straight to it as soon as he closed the door behind him. He drank the first shot at a gulp, then took glass and bottle both to the armchair by the fireplace and settled in.

By the fourth refill, the unsettled fear was gone. He felt warm and a little sleepy—finally. All those eyes on him in the studio; they didn't matter anymore. It even felt okay that John was half a world away. It didn't matter if Mycroft was right and John ended up going back to the waiting arms of the MOD. Everything was going to be all right. And he was so sleepy. One more drink, maybe two, then he'd go to bed.

When Sherlock woke the next morning, his mouth was sour and his head was pounding. Each heartbeat resonated with a sickening thud behind his eyes. He couldn't remember making it to his bed. He rolled over with a groan and ended up lying on something hard that turned out to be his phone. He'd missed a phone call from John. Sherlock started to dial, then remembered the time difference. He fell back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

* * *

John didn't hear anything further from home until the next morning. He showered, and was considering what to do with all the empty time ahead of him when his mobile rang. It was a UK number he didn't recognise. "John Watson."

"John, Dan Drummond. I'm glad I caught you."

"Colonel Drummond. It's good to hear from you, sir." John caught himself straightening his posture automatically.

"Dan," he corrected, then chuckled. "You're not in uniform anymore, John. Although I see you're still keeping your hand in, eh?"

"Well, not intentionally," John said, smiling slightly. He couldn't will himself to relax, too intent on why he was getting this phone call.

"Still, well done. You've kept the lot in the press office busy this week, at any rate. How are you healing up, then?"

John snorted, muscles slowly relaxing. "Well, I was just fine until a couple of days ago. Physio did wonders; no sign of so much as a limp, most days. Considering I had a house explode around me, I got off pretty easy. Bit of temporary hearing loss, a few burns."

"Excellent," Colonel Drummond—Dan—said. "Any word yet on when you're coming back home?"

"Hopefully next week," John said. "I just need the go ahead from the doctors here. Never thought I'd be homesick for the NHS, that's for damn sure."

"When you come back, call my office, would you? I have a proposal for you, John." And there it was.

"I... thought you might, sir." The 'sir' slipped out, and John let it stand.

"We could use someone with your experience at Hereford, you know. I've heard about your work in the field; you'd make an excellent instructor."

"Thank you, I'm flattered."

"And, well, rumour has it you might have a reason to want to stay closer to London these days," Dan said, sounding amused.

God help him if the American press got wind of that, John thought. "I'll admit, long-term deployment has lost some of its appeal," he said.

"Come talk to me when you get back. We could really use you, John. You can stay close to home, go back to London on the weekends if you'd like, even."

John's gut instinct was to say yes, right away. In the field, he'd always managed to find one or two folks to take under his wing; to shape an entire section from the start—it was tempting. "Absolutely," he said. "I'll ring you as soon as I'm home."

"All right then, I'll look forward to hearing from you," Dan said. "Give my regards to your young man. He looks as if he's quite a lot to keep up with."

John laughed at that. "I will, thank you." After he rang off, John tried calling Sherlock, but got no answer.

* * *

It was after dark. Sherlock was sprawled on his couch, hand dangling over the edge, a burning cigarette between his fingers. The past several days were a fog, and he was just hovering on the edge between still drunk and hungover. The flat was dim, just enough light to keep from tripping on furniture.

Mycroft called to tell him the news the day after Sherlock's interview. Mycroft knew; of course he did. John's old CO had called him with a gem of an offer, one that John was sure to take. When John tried to call him four times in an hour, Sherlock knew Mycroft had been right.

He took a drag from the cigarette and debated a moment if it was worth getting up to get another drink or if it was time for something stronger. There was a vial of cocaine tucked away inside the top of the toilet tank. He hadn't bought it himself—of course not. If he had, Mycroft would already have him under lock and key somewhere. No, it was a gift, a friend from the bad old days. How bad were things? What was worse, feeling this way, or giving up? It was a decision he made minute to minute—_this minute is okay, but the next minute might not be_. Having the cocaine actually within reach felt both powerful and reassuring. It was _there_ and he wasn't using it. But he _could_, if he needed to.

Sherlock swung his legs over the edge of the couch and sat up, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray on the floor. As he headed to the kitchen to get another drink, there was a knock at his door. He thought about ignoring it. Greg had taken to stopping by at least once a day and annoying him. Sherlock couldn't deal with another set of pushy invitations to dinner or the pub or "_anywhere_, really—Sherlock, you need to get out of this flat." He'd already missed one meeting with Emma—he had a vague memory of texting her that he had the flu.

The knocking came again, louder this time. Sherlock sighed and went to check the peephole. There on his doorstep was John, looking exhausted beyond belief.

He couldn't let him in. The flat was a disaster, but more than that _Sherlock_ was a disaster. John couldn't see him like this. Could he? He had to let him in. Sherlock paused, fumbled at the chain, then opened the door.

John came in and grabbed Sherlock hard around the waist, a smile of relief blossoming, followed by flash of anger and worry. "Sherlock, Jesus, thank god you're okay. Where the hell have you been?"

Sherlock patted him awkwardly, reaching to close the door behind him. "What—how are you here? You weren't cleared to fly, were you?"

John was kissing him, but Sherlock couldn't let him, not now. Sherlock started to push him away, but John stopped, drawing back to look at him. "You arse, you weren't answering your damn phone. Did you think I'd just sit over there and do nothing? I was worried about you! Why didn't you call me back?"

"It's been a little busy here," Sherlock said, drawing away. Distance helped. "I'm sorry." He felt dizzy suddenly, not enough food and too much scotch for several days.

John laughed and shook his head. "_Busy_? You couldn't send a fucking text?"

Sherlock tried to move to the couch, but felt himself wavering on his feet before flopping down on to it. "I said I was sorry."

John followed after him, but didn't sit, crouching in front of the couch. His eyes narrowed and Sherlock knew what John was seeing: Sherlock unshowered, unshaven, still half-drunk from the night before. "Jesus, Sherlock. Are you drunk?"

"Not as drunk as I was." Sherlock pulled away as John reached for his hands.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Look, I'm fine," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry I didn't call. I haven't been home for months; I unplugged for a bit, all right?"

"'Unplugged'," John said. "How many days has it been, Sherlock?" When Sherlock didn't answer, John rubbed at his face. "Shit. It's not just alcohol, is it?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake. How long is that going to be the first thing everybody thinks?" Sherlock wanted to pace, but he still felt wobbly. "I got _drunk_, all right? I'm fine. You don't have to keep an eye on me like I'm a fucking _child_."

John stood up. "Right. You don't call me for days on end, so I fly back here to check on you—against medical advice, mind—and you're _pissed off_ at me?"

"You're in the SAS; do any of you care about medical advice?"

"That's not the point," John said. "Tell me what the hell is going on!"

Should he say it? It all made sense in his head days ago when he first realised, when the vial in the toilet tank first made its appearance. This would be better. _John_ would be better, and Sherlock could go back to making his decisions minute-by-minute without worrying about anybody else. "I thought I was being obvious. The tour's over."

He got a blank look in response. "Wh—no it's not. We're picking up again in March."

"Yeah, but you're not going to be there, are you?"

John looked slightly guilty, and Sherlock knew Mycroft had been right. Sherlock would make a terrible partner for a career officer. John said, "How did you—I haven't—"

"No, but you're going to," Sherlock said. He made himself smile, the corners of his mouth tugging painfully. "And you should. I know it's what you want."

"It's not that simple," John started, and Sherlock couldn't let him continue.

"It is," he said, and he felt a blessed coolness slide into place around him. Easy, now it would be easy. "We don't make any sense together."

"What?"

"You heard me perfectly well."

John smiled, a grim baring of his teeth. "So that's it then? 'Thanks, it was fun, get out'? I don't believe you."

Sherlock shook his head. "You knew what I was the first time I kissed you, John. It's not my fault if you told yourself differently." He watched John clench and unclench his hands because he couldn't look at John's face anymore.

"You can't tell me there was _nothing_, Sherlock."

"I believe I just did." Sherlock rested his head against the back of the couch and looked at the ceiling. "I was bored, and you were there."

"Bored. No, I don't buy that."

Sherlock sighed. "God, this is _tedious_. This is how it works. You were there, you were absolutely lovely, but now I'm home and I don't need you anymore."

"I don't know what's going on, but I know right now you're full of shit," John said. "I'll fucking sit right here all night if that's what it takes to sort this out."

The calm determination in his voice made Sherlock want to take it all back, to go back to being selfish, but he couldn't. John needed more; he _deserved_ more. "No, I don't think so," Sherlock said, amazed that his voice was steady and calm. "I think you should go."

John looked as if he'd been slapped. "You—are you throwing me _out_?"

"Not at all," Sherlock said. "Just asking you to leave."

John blinked at him for several seconds. "You really mean it." He laughed, disbelieving and harsh. "One week. Just one bloody week out of your sight and that's it then."

"I'm sorry." He said it with a little shrug, a little head tilt of 'what can you do?' But god, those words were true.

Sherlock watched John walk to the door, and watched him turn back to look at Sherlock, still sitting on the couch. "I'll go," John said, "but something's wrong here. Don't think I'm not going to find out what it is."

The door slammed shut behind him. Sherlock sighed and pressed his hands to his temples. _Just one more minute. Then the next._


	11. Without You Everything Falls Apart

_**AN: THANK YOU to everybody who's read this and commented and been so fantastic. :)**  
_

_Chapter title (and fic title!) from "The Perfect Drug" by Nine Inch Nails_

* * *

**Chapter 11: Without You Everything Falls Apart**

John discovered he was by far one of the youngest instructors at Hereford. His colleagues were ten, twenty years older than him: men who'd had spectacular careers before age or injury finally slowed them down. It stung a little, to be here so young. He had more in common with the trainees than he did with his fellow instructors.

He had two weeks ahead of him to learn the ropes before he officially signed the contract that put him back in the Army, but it was a technicality. Everyone seemed to already accept that he was back.

Everyone also seemed to know about Sherlock. As Major Devan was showing him around the barracks, one of the lockers was open, bringing John face to face with, well, a pin-up of Sherlock, half-dressed and in full glam mode. The kid's buddy slammed the locker shut and hissed something about having some respect for the new captain. John half-listened, torn between trying to keep a straight face and trying to swallow the ache in his throat. He settled on giving the kid a stern look and moving on.

It felt as if he'd never been out of uniform, but at the same time, his surroundings at Hereford couldn't have felt more foreign. It had been years since he'd been here last, just a scared kid worried about washing out of training. Now he was supposedly one of the men who knew what they were doing. If nothing else, he'd learnt since then how to fake that until it wasn't fake anymore. Still he couldn't help but feel a little bit of an impostor as the major showed him to his quarters: small, spartan, and now home for four or five nights a week. Maybe more. Without Sherlock, reasons to go back to London on the weekends were growing more and more limited. John shook off the moodiness and started to unpack his things.

Dinner in the officers' mess turned out to be more relaxed than he'd imagined as a trainee, and his fellow instructors were less intimidating, with more than a bit of raucous laughter and joking.

"Oi, Watson," Hamilton—a major from somewhere close to Hadrian's Wall to judge by his accent— called across the table. "I saw your girlfriend on the BBC the other morning. She's a looker, that one is."

It was about what he'd been expecting. There was a little spike of tension around the table as they waited to see how John would react. He made a show of poking at his food, an easy grin on his face. "Be happy to pass along your interest," he said, "but I wouldn't hold out much hope. Sherlock's only interested in men with bigger cocks than his, and from what I hear, you wouldn't stand much of a chance." The table erupted into laughter and someone pounded him on the shoulder. Hamilton snorted and gave John a grin and the finger. John knew he'd passed a test.

Sooner or later he'd have to acknowledge that Sherlock wasn't his anything anymore, but for now he just smiled and pretended everything was fine.

* * *

"You utter asshole."

Sherlock sighed and laid back across the sofa, phone in hand, eyes on the ceiling of his flat. "Hello, Irene."

"No, seriously. Are you fucking insane? I know you're not fucking sane, because you're letting sane walk right out the door. What exactly are you doing, Sherlock?"

"Who told you?"

"Molly was first," Irene said. "Then Greg. I'd've verified it with John but I don't have his new number yet. Now answer me. What do you think you're doing?"

"What I had to," Sherlock said, and it sounded weak even to him.

"I saw the way you looked at him. You can't tell me you're just over it now that you're home." Irene paused to breathe in and out slowly. "Tell me what's really going on. Are you using again?"

"No!" He answered maybe a little too fast. The vial was still in its place. Hidden. The urge was _right there_ every time he stopped moving long enough to let it catch up to him.

"Then what? He would have died for you; you can't tell me that he's over it either."

Sherlock closed his eyes and draped his forearm across his forehead, hand dangling loosely. After a long moment, he said, "I just can't do it, all right? I can't—_be normal_ and go with him to military dinners or whatever the hell they do. I can't play house on the weekends when I'm home and spend every night I'm on tour wishing he was there."

"Did you tell him that?"

"No, there's no point, Irene. This is what he wants. Better to end it now."

"This is better?"

"No," Sherlock said, miserable. "But it will _get_ better."

"You're still holding something back," she said. "What is it? Really?"

Sherlock said, "I nearly got him killed."

Irene laughed. "Sherlock, he used to get _paid_ to nearly get killed. I'm fairly certain that isn't a problem for him."

"But it was for me," he said. "What happens when he decides teaching isn't enough and wants to go somewhere more dangerous? He'll never be happy just teaching. He'll want to be in the middle of things. What if they decide he's well enough for combat again?"

Irene didn't say anything for a moment. "Not that I'm saying that's likely," she finally said, "but again, it didn't occur to you to mention this to him? He might have changed his mind, for you."

"He shouldn't _have_ to, though. He deserves better than that."

"What? Where did that come from?"

"He said it once," Sherlock said. "He said I was a train wreck. He's right."

"Jesus Christ. You are making absolutely no sense. Are you listening to the shit coming out of your mouth?"

"Just leave it, all right? It's over, that's all you need to know." _Just shut up and leave me alone, Irene._

"Oh my god," Irene gasped. "Sherlock Holmes, you're being a fucking martyr, that's what you're doing. I can't believe you. You are, without a doubt, the most idiotic, childish, _selfish_ man I have ever known. I'll say it if no one else will—and I hate you for making me say something so cliche and obvious: John Watson was the best goddamn thing that ever happened to you, and you're throwing it away so you can feel—what—_noble_? Because you're scared? Someone got to you, so you have to run?"

"I can't leave the fucking flat anymore without feeling like someone's watching me." The words came out before he could stop them.

"You're a pop star in the middle of a legal battle. Of _course_ there are people watching you," Irene said.

"Not—not like that." Sherlock banged his head against the armrest of the couch, wishing he could take the whole conversation back.

"You mean—oh." Irene's voice softened just a touch. "That's normal, you know."

"What do _you_ know about it?"

Irene snorted. "Okay, asshole, here's where I point out that he went after _me_ before he went after _you_, did you forget? Did you think I was completely fine after that? I was scared half to death after that night. That first concert afterwards my hands were sweating so badly I thought I'd short out the mic."

Sherlock sat up and swung his feet to the floor. "You never said."

"_Of course_ I didn't. Do you think you're superhuman? You're allowed to freak out. You're _not_ allowed to screw up every good thing in your life as a result."

Sherlock sighed. "I think I already have."

"Oh for fuck's sake. Quit being such a drama queen and _talk to him_. I swear to god, if you don't call him I will."

"Irene, I—"

"Yes, you can, don't say you can't. You have three days, Sherlock, or I'll call him, and it won't be to see if he still wants _you_, either."

"You can't do that."

"Three days, Sherlock, then watch me." She rang off.

* * *

"Come on, you fuckin' infants! Speed it up!" John yelled at the trainees running the assault course, watching closely to see who needed more pushing. A few were taking it a little too easy, and he thought he could already tell which of the slackers was going to wash out of training. He wondered if he'd looked as clueless as some of them did at this point, or if he'd been one of the ones with expressions of grim determination.

As the last one crossed the finish line, John joined with Major Devan, as John was shadowing him for the day. "That," said the major, "was pitiful. Captain Watson, if you'd be so kind as to provide a demonstration?"

John had run the assault course just the day before, mostly to see if he still could, to see if his shoulder would still let him scale walls and if his knee would hold up under jumps. He knew what the major was looking for, and he hoped he was up to providing it. "Yes sir," he said, and jogged to the beginning of the course.

The fastest trainee had come in at just over five minutes. John had to beat that, or the object lesson would fail. His heart beat with anticipation.

It was easier the second time around. Muscle memory kicked in as he scaled the six-foot wall, then the ten-foot wall. He had to keep from grinning, each successful jump or fall adding to his sheer joy, the first he'd felt in weeks. He reached the end of the course with just a twinge in his shoulder, barely noticeable under the rush of endorphins.

"Thank you, Captain Watson," Major Devan said. "Four minutes forty-seven seconds. Can any of you tell me what that means?"

One of the braver ones spoke up. "He beat us, sir?"

"That's right, Williams. Captain Watson—who was _invalided out_ thanks to his injuries, who is considered _no longer fit for combat_, walloped every single one of you. Captain, what would you say would happen if we dropped this lot in the middle of Sierra Leone?"

"They might last two minutes, sir," John said. "I'd say we've got a long road ahead of us."

"Too right," Major Devan said. "All right. Back to the start, all of you. You're going to do it again, and if at least one of you doesn't beat Captain Watson's time, we'll do it again until someone does."

John should have been more pleased with himself than he was. He'd thought Major Devan's words "no longer fit for combat" would bother him more than they did, but that wasn't the reason for the faint sense of disappointment lingering in his gut. He'd taken on a challenge. He'd won. That should have been enough. But it wasn't. It didn't seem like anything more than a game. In the field, his running speed, his agility, would have meant something. Here it was just another training mechanism, a yardstick for the trainees to beat themselves against.

It didn't feel the same at all.

* * *

While he was on the train to London that first Friday, John got a text from Greg asking him if he wanted to meet at the pub on Saturday. He couldn't accept fast enough.

He slept in to the ridiculous hour of 9 am on Saturday, then let himself be a lazy sod for most of the day. He argued with Harry over who got which section of the paper first, then cooked her an enormous fry-up as thanks for letting him continue to use her spare room.

By the time he got to the pub that night, Greg had already turned up. The noise made it easy not to talk, so John focused on drinking his pint. When he did talk, he told Greg how the first week of training had gone, how he'd have to think about finding a flat soon because Harry didn't want him in her hair every weekend, everything but the one thing he was really thinking about. Finally, halfway through his second pint, a silence fell between them, and John couldn't put it off anymore. "How is he?"

Greg stared into his glass for a minute before answering. "He's writing some of the most godawful music I've ever heard. And I've known him for a while. That's saying something."

"No good?" John frowned.

"Oh no, it's _good_," Greg said. "It's just the saddest shit you've ever heard. John, what happened?"

"He didn't tell you?" John took a long swallow from his glass. "He said it was over. I was done with the tour, so he was done with me."

Greg sighed. "And so you left."

"What was I supposed to do?" asked John.

"You don't understand, do you?" Greg said. "Let me tell you what happens on a tour, mate. You meet somebody on the road—maybe they'll be around for a while, maybe they won't—and you hit it off, right? It gets intense. Why not, you're together nearly twenty-four hours a day with shit going crazy around you all the time. Then the tour's over. And you think 'No, but this is going to last, we've got something here', but it doesn't, and you don't. And within a month or so, you can't remember what it was about them you liked."

"Jesus, Greg. It wasn't like that at all. I'm not—"

"I know _you're_ not," Greg said. "I'm telling you that's what relationships are, as far as Sherlock is concerned. And you left the tour."

John scrubbed at his forehead with his palm. "But I'm _right here_. He threw me out of his fucking flat, Greg. That seemed like a pretty clear message. What should I have done, stayed on his doorstep?"

"Do you really think he meant what he said?"

"Yes. No. Damn it, Greg. I am not going to follow Sherlock around like... like Jim bloody Moriarty!"

"Oh come on, you know it's not the same."

"Isn't it? You think I should go stand under his window every night like some lovesick teenager?"

"I think you should talk some sense into him," Greg said, draining his glass. "You may be the only one who can right now."

John sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose. "What's really going on? Do you know? I know he was lying to me."

Greg opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally he blurted, "He's afraid." He scrubbed at his chin with the back of his hand. "He won't say it, but he is. I can barely get him out of the flat. He finally stopped drinking after you came home, but... he's too quiet. I'm afraid he's going to use again," he said, barely audible over the ambient noise.

"What?"

"He's my best mate, all right? He's never kept things from me like this before. He's about to make a cock up of everything. And you bloody well are too because neither of you can be arsed to _talk to each other_."

John swallowed the last of his pint. "He's dodging my calls; what do you suggest I do?"

"I suggest you get your arse over there and talk to him."

"Yeah, maybe." John leaned his elbows against the bar and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Can you—can you keep an eye on him? Until I can?"

"What do you think I've been doing?" Greg said, the corners of his mouth drawn down. "Talk to him soon, John. Don't keep putting it off."

* * *

It was Monday morning back at Hereford, the first of many to come, undoubtedly. This week John would be doing less shadowing and observing, and a little more hands on instructing. First up was close combat. As soon as he squared off against one of the trainees, he knew it was a mistake.

_"The first thing to remember is this: don't be a hero. Your only goal is to get away. So anything I show you is to do just that." _It echoed in his head, paired with the image of a worried, sleep-deprived Sherlock.

Of course that wasn't at all what he needed to teach here. _Focus, John_. He got through the drill, and afterwards, stepped outside. It was still early in the morning, the grounds misty with only the faintest hint of sun. It would be easy to walk into and get lost. Shoving his hands into his pockets, John walked. He had a bit before he needed to be anywhere else.

He thought about what Greg had said to him two days prior. In the end, he'd lacked the courage to go round to Sherlock's flat. The idea of seeing cold-eyed scorn aimed at him a second time... he'd backed down. Stupid. If he were less of a coward, he would have parked himself on Sherlock's doorstep until Sherlock told him the truth. Sherlock owed him that much.

What was John doing here?

He thought about the days stretching before him. He could teach. He could make sure the next lot of SAS went into combat prepared to face anything. They would go off around the world and make a difference, and he would stay here in Hereford and teach them how to make a difference. And every day would be just like the one before. Sure, there might be an occasional burst of adrenaline, he'd even be able to test himself against some of the best Britain had to offer. But never as a surprise. There would never be anything he didn't see coming. Predictable, organised—chaotic only to the students, not the teachers.

He thought about what it had been like, travelling across America. Even before Sherlock had been anything more than part of the job, each day had been something new, some unexpected challenge. He had always been on his toes. It had been, strangely, much like living and working in a war zone, minus the actual risk of death. Suddenly John missed it, fiercely. He missed walking into a new club, anxious to find out what problems he'd have to solve that day. He missed running around like a madman, dodging wires and ropes the way he'd once dodged bullets. He missed Sherlock, sure. He suspected he always would, but Sherlock wasn't the whole of it.

He thought about Harry telling him there was a career waiting for him as a tour manager. Even without Sherlock, he'd be lying if he didn't acknowledge the little thrill of excitement that gave him. The unknown, every night. Every stop something new. He'd been wrong. That was what he'd wanted. The SAS had given him that in spades, but not now. Not here.

Oh god, he'd been an idiot.

In the end, it was easier than he'd expected.

"I hate to lose you, John," said Drummond, when John had stopped by his office, "you're a hell of a soldier and would have made a damn fine instructor. I've had your commission paperwork sitting right here. You're sure?"

John was.

Dismissed, he grabbed what few things were in his quarters and was on the train to London within the hour. He didn't even bother to change clothes.

Once on the train, he phoned Harry. "Still offering me a job?"

"Are you looking for one now?" She sounded amused, but not surprised. "We haven't finalised anything for Sherlock's tour yet."

John paused, then took a breath. "Let me go talk to him first. I'll call you afterwards."

He settled back in his seat and tried to figure out what he was going to say.

* * *

Sherlock heard the alarm going off beside his head and groaned, reaching out blindly to slap at it. He had a moment to wonder why he'd set the alarm in the first place. It was 9 am and he'd managed to fall asleep sometime after five. Before he could roll over and ignore the alarm entirely, he remembered his meeting at 11 am at Mike Stamford's office. He flopped back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Honestly, he didn't see why the meeting was even necessary. It was obvious they weren't going to try to hire a new tour manager in the wake of John's departure (_don't think about that)_ but that they'd offer the job to Sally Donovan. Who'd be perfectly happy to accept it and make his life hell for the next two months.

Sherlock forced himself out of bed and into the shower, knowing there wasn't enough caffeine or nicotine in the world to make this morning bearable. It didn't stop him from trying, downing two cups of coffee while getting dressed and chain-smoking one cigarette after another. He dressed quickly but with at least a little care—black jeans, worn and threadbare grey t-shirt and over it, a dark purple-red dress shirt loose and open down the front and at the cuffs. The press were still keeping an eye out, and it wasn't unlikely that he'd be photographed at some point.

Less than an hour after crawling out of bed, he was walking out of his building. The sun was improbably bright for January so Sherlock slid on a pair of dark sunglasses and stopped long enough to light a cigarette. He took some consolation in the fact that even if he still felt like shit, he at least didn't look it. He came down the steps of his building and walked a few feet before stopping abruptly, letting the other pedestrians part around him like water around a boulder.

_John_. There was no way he should have been here in the middle of the morning, walking towards Sherlock's building with such tight-mouthed determination. He shouldn't have been here, especially not in full uniform. John's bearing was even more impossibly upright, from the top of his beige beret to the soles of his tan boots. He was clearly a man on a mission. Sherlock studied him as John still kept his eyes fixed forward like he was on a march. There was nothing logical about the sudden pounding of Sherlock's heart. The camouflage fabric of John's uniform wasn't form-fitting or revealing, except inasmuch as it emphasised his body's honed state of readiness. Maybe it was the glint Sherlock could just see in John's eyes as he got closer. Whatever it was, when John realised Sherlock was standing there, the full force of it was turned directly to bear on Sherlock, and for a moment he couldn't breathe.

John stopped just a few feet in front of him, as the pedestrians split around them. Sherlock, ever image-conscious, had a moment to wonder at the picture they must make, opposites in every respect: dark and light, tall and short, slender and muscular, carelessly fashionable and impeccably uniformed. He took off his sunglasses as John took off his beret, toying with the patch on the front. Sherlock recognised it: it was a match to the tattoo on John's right shoulder.

"Hi," John said.

"Hello." Sherlock fought the urge to grab him by the shoulders and kiss him, not sure if it would be welcome anymore.

"You owe me some answers," John said, tilting a small, tight grin at him; Sherlock felt a corresponding ache in his chest.

"I—" What could he say? That he'd been a coward? "I didn't want to be in your way."

"Jesus, Sherlock," and then John was laughing at him, _laughing_, but in a way that was anything but funny. "In the way of _what?_"

"Well you're—" Sherlock gestured at the uniform.

"You giant idiot. I took a post three hours from here so I could stay close."

"But I—"

"Look. Can we just—_talk_ to each other for a minute?"

God, what horrible timing. Sherlock hesitated. "I want to—I do. I'm have an appointment."

"Just give me ten minutes," said John.

Ordinarily Sherlock didn't give a damn if he was late; why did it matter to him now? He took one more drag off the cigarette and ground it out, then nodded, gesturing up the steps. "Come in." He led the way back to his flat, trying not to think about John following him. When he opened the door, he saw the state the place was in and started tidying, moving piles of sheet music and books from one place to another.

"Sherlock, stop." John stepped over to him and caught him gently by the arm. Sherlock stopped, and looked over at him. "I never left. I was never _leaving_."

"I know you weren't," Sherlock said, "but your career—I'm not—"

"You're not...?" John raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish.

"...military? I'm never going to fit into that crowd. I'd be a detriment—"

John laughed the same weary laugh. "You're an idiot."

Sherlock pressed on. "I thought—no, I _knew_—I thought I knew—" He stopped with a growl of frustration, then finally settled on, "I didn't want you to see me the way I was when I got home."

"I always want to see you," John said. "That's why I flew from San Francisco to London with a busted eardrum."

"No—"

"Yes," John said, and pressed a finger to Sherlock's mouth. That one touch was enough to break past the things Sherlock was trying to say. Without knowing who started it, Sherlock's arms were around John and John's were around him and John's mouth was beneath his open and warm and _God_ Sherlock really was an idiot.

He pulled away first. "John, I'm sorry, I was angry and I—"

"I know," John said, and Sherlock leaned in to kiss him again. John leaned away. "Wait, I need to tell you something." Sherlock looked down at him, smiling to see John's close-cropped hair a little mussed, and raised a hand to smooth it back down. John pulled away further, and tucked away his beret under the strap across his shoulder. He looked discomfited, then took a deep breath. "I changed my mind," John said. "It's not what I thought it would be."

"What isn't?"

"I turned down my commission. Teaching is... it's not where I belong." He fidgeted with the cuff of his uniform shirt, not looking at Sherlock. "I'm going back to work for Harry," he said. "She's got other tours lined for me if I want them, but—"

"But what?" Sherlock sank down into one of the chairs by the fireplace, giving John some space.

"Look. Whatever's going on, let me in. If you meant what you said—if you really want me gone, then okay. But if you don't, tell me so."

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. "I meant it when I said it. But I was wrong."

"Do you want me back on your tour?" John's _eyes_. He should have been furious with Sherlock, but he wasn't. Instead his eyes were calm, steady. Patient.

Sherlock nodded slowly. His throat felt too tight to allow a sound to pass through.

"Then that's settled." John smiled and leaned forward. "Come here." Sherlock met him halfway, letting John pull him to his feet, wrapping his arms around John's neck. They stood there together in silence for several moments, arms tight around each other. Sherlock tilted his head and pressed his mouth against the side of John's neck and felt John's body melting against his. John sighed as Sherlock opened his mouth and brushed against the pulse beating in John's neck, feeling it speed up under his lips.

John drew away once more, only to lean up towards Sherlock. Sherlock managed to say "God, I missed you," just as their mouths met. John petted his hair and Sherlock twined his fingers in the belt loops of John's trousers, his knuckles brushing the heavy webbing of John's belt. As Sherlock pulled him in tighter, John trailed his fingers down the sides of Sherlock's neck and slipped under the collar of his dress shirt to rest on his shoulders. He could feel John starting to push the fabric off his shoulders when he remembered the meeting, and pulled away. "Damn it. Harry."

John blinked, then laughed. "You did _not_ just call me by my sister's name."

"What? No! My meeting. It's with Harry. About the tour." Sherlock scrabbled in his pocket for his phone. "I have to go, I'm sorry. Will you be here when I—" John reached over and plucked the phone out of his hands, then dialled a number. Sherlock tried to take the phone back, but John leaned out of his reach and grinned.

"Harry! Just wanted to let you know you can cancel your meeting with Sherlock today."

"John, give me my phone." Sherlock reached again, but John darted away with a laugh, heading directly towards the bedroom.

"No, he's fine. But he's got a tour manager again. And I have things I need to _discuss_ with him." He looked Sherlock up and down with mischief in his eyes. "At length."

"John." Sherlock rolled his eyes and laughed.

"Tomorrow?" John said. "I think that might be enough time. I'll call if not." He laughed. "You're welcome." He rang off.

"You're mad," Sherlock said.

"You're one to talk." John tossed him his mobile. "Harry says we can meet her tomorrow at one if I promise not tell her what we 'discussed'."

Sherlock just had time to put the mobile down on the bedside table before John grabbed him around the waist and tossed him back against the bed in one easy motion. Sherlock sprawled on his back, resting on his elbows, watching as John untucked his heavy uniform shirt and started unbuttoning it from the bottom up.

"Speaking of talking," John said, smirking. "At some point we're going to need to have a talk about you making decisions about what's best for me without bothering to talk to me first, hm?"

Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, mesmerised by the slow, steady movement of John's fingers up the front of his uniform as he undid one button at a time, giving Sherlock small flashes of the fabric underneath. Sherlock blinked to clear his vision. "It wasn't just that," he said, as John slid off his shirt to reveal the beige t-shirt that was a match to the beret.

"What was it then?" John asked. He lifted one foot to the edge of the mattress, leaning down to unlace his boots while looking at Sherlock. Sherlock swallowed and sat up to unlace his own shoes. John shook his head. "My job. Your job is to answer the question."

Sherlock lay back on his elbows again, watching the flex of muscle under John's clothes as he finished untying his boots and slipped them off. Sherlock was finding it harder to think with each piece of John's uniform that came off. "Later," he said. "I promise." John looked at him for a moment, then smiled, slow and mischievous. He started unlacing Sherlock's shoes. Sherlock sat up and caught him by the t-shirt and pulled him in. John didn't resist, but crawled up onto Sherlock, one leg between his thighs.

"You could have let me finish getting undressed," John murmured, leaning down to kiss him.

"Plenty of time for that," Sherlock said between kisses down John's jawline. "You said tomorrow afternoon, after all."

John groaned softly and lowered his mouth to Sherlock's ear. He murmured, "That doesn't mean I don't want you right now." He pressed his thigh against Sherlock's crotch and Sherlock arched up to meet him, hooking one foot behind John's leg.

"God, yes," Sherlock said and tugged at the back of John's t-shirt, pulling it out of his trousers and sliding his hands up John's back. John took the hint and knelt up for a moment, tugging the shirt over his head and tossing it away. Sherlock looked at his body, at the familiar play of muscles and skin, and had to touch. He reached up pulled John back down for a kiss, sliding his hands over the firm muscles of John's shoulders and down his sides. Sherlock fumbled at the heavy belt around John's waist, wrestling with it until John reached down and impatiently pushed his hands away, undoing the belt before reaching to twine his hands in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock had an easier time with the flies of John's trousers, letting his fingers soak in John's warmth, feeling him half-hard through his pants. John murmured something encouraging against his mouth, so he shoved both pants and trousers down. John wriggled the rest of the way out of them and kicked them away. Sherlock couldn't resist running his fingers over John's cock, feeling it harden and hearing John's quiet hum of appreciation. He ran his hands up John's sides, then shoved at his good shoulder, flipping him over. He crouched over John and tugged off his dress shirt.

John smirked up at him. "That t-shirt looks like it's ready for the bin." As he said it though, he reached up for Sherlock and slipped his hands under the thin fabric, curving his fingers around Sherlock's back.

"It's a fashion statement," Sherlock said, leaning down to lick at John's collarbone.

John gasped and tilted back his head, but laughed. "What's the statement? 'I'm a starving musician who can't afford to buy new clothes'?" Sherlock sat up to glare at him, but John pulled his hands away and slid them up to Sherlock's chest, fisting his hands in the flimsy fabric and pulling Sherlock back down to him. Sherlock heard stitches popping in the seams.

"Careful," he said.

John grinned up at him and tightened his hands. "Or what, I'll tear it? Would you notice another one?" His eyes met Sherlock's, and his fingers found one of the holes in the fabric over Sherlock's chest. With a wicked glint in his eyes, John pulled, and Sherlock heard the purring rip of fabric and felt the rush of cool air against his chest.

He looked down and saw the grey shirt in tatters, open from collar to hem. "Oh you bastard," Sherlock said, even as he felt a rush of heat up his spine. He grabbed John's wrists and wrestled them down to the bed-he suspected John wasn't fighting back terribly hard, or he'd never have managed. He leaned down to lick into John's mouth, mind humming with a single thought: John, pinned naked under him.

John squirmed beneath him for several long moments of the demanding kiss, and Sherlock was torn between holding him there indefinitely and taking his own clothes off. John made the decision for him: he scissored his legs around Sherlock's and flipped him over. John pinned Sherlock's hands effortlessly with one hand, and Sherlock whined softly. John's other hand trailed down Sherlock's now-bare chest, and his eyes were locked onto Sherlock's, wide and dark.

Sherlock felt as if he were straining for each breath and bit his lower lip hard as John's fingers inched towards his waist. "I missed you," Sherlock gasped.

"Even though I'm a bastard?" John grinned then slid his hand to cup Sherlock's crotch. "I could rip you out of these jeans too, you know."

"You wouldn't."

"Utility knife in my trouser pocket, a few nicks here and there, and..." He released Sherlock's hands and started to slide down Sherlock's body, leaving a trail of kisses and bites across his skin. Sherlock arched underneath him, moaning when John's mouth pressed against his cock, the heat of his breath seeping through his jeans. At that moment, Sherlock didn't care if John did decide to cut him out of them, as long as he took them off. As if John had heard his thoughts, he unbuttoned Sherlock's flies while his lips and teeth kept teasing at the hard shape of Sherlock's trapped cock.

"Raise up," John said, as he tugged the zip down. Sherlock lifted his hips and John drew away jeans, pants, and all. He tossed them away, then leaned in to sleek his hands up the outsides of Sherlock's thighs. And then, oh then, John's mouth came back to lick gently at the crease of Sherlock's hip, slow, teasing touches of tongue and lips that edged closer to the centre, then moved away until Sherlock was ready to scream in frustration.

"Please," Sherlock gasped, and John inched a little closer, just letting the edge of his tongue stroke the side of Sherlock's balls.

"Please, what?" John was smiling, Sherlock could feel the curve of his lips against his skin. "Please this?" John slid the flat of his tongue up the underside of Sherlock's cock and Sherlock groaned so loudly it echoed in the room. "That sounds like a yes," John said. He leaned in and licked the head of Sherlock's cock slowly, thoroughly, threatening to burn out any remaining thought from Sherlock's head. He opened his eyes and looked down at John, who was watching him. John grinned, and repeated the action, a slow easy curling of his tongue from the underside of Sherlock's glans all the way over the top of it. Sherlock recognised it instantly, his own trick, saved for microphones and boyfriends.

"Oh you bastard," Sherlock said again, letting his head fall back to the mattress. "I love you."

John crawled up Sherlock's body and settled against him, warm skin against warm skin. "Say that again."

"You bastard."

John laughed and tugged at Sherlock's hair. "You know what I meant."

Sherlock smiled and reached up to cup his hands around the back of John's head. He kissed John gently, little more than a peck on the lips. "I love you."

"Do me a favour, and don't forget that, all right?" He returned the kiss, a little less gently. "I love you too. Enough that you can tell me what's going on with you, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"God knows I've faced worse than you," John said, then leaned down to trail kisses down Sherlock's neck. He rolled his hips against Sherlock's: teasing, dragging friction as their cocks pressed together, trapped between their bodies. Sherlock groaned and reached for the firm curves of John's arse, wanting more. He wrapped his legs tight around John's, arching to rub and press their bodies together until John stopped him.

John's voice dropped to a low growl. "I need you inside me."

All Sherlock could manage was a breathy, "Yes." He turned so he was no longer crosswise on the bed, and reached over to the bedside table. John followed him, nuzzling and nipping at him, making it hard for Sherlock to focus on the simple task at hand. Fending John off with one hand and a laugh, he managed to grab the bottle of lube and a condom from the drawer, then settled back against the pillows. John pounced, straddling Sherlock's thighs and leaning down to kiss him, slow and wet and deep while he wrapped his fingers around their cocks, just barely stroking them together.

Sherlock groaned and tried to focus on getting the lube on his fingers instead of all over the bed. He reached up with his left hand and caught John by the back of the neck, keeping him where he was, and slowly teased the fingers of his other hand into the crack of John's arse, slipping down until he brushed against John's hole. John sagged against him, relaxing into a soft moan as Sherlock slipped the first finger inside, wriggling into the soft, sweet heat as John squirmed against him.

Sherlock had nearly lost this, had nearly pushed John away for good. He closed his eyes and swallowed the lump threatening to knot in his throat. He slowly worked a second finger into John, hearing him hiss at the stretch then gasp softly.

"Hey," John murmured, "come back to me." Sherlock opened his eyes and John leaned down to kiss him. "I know," John said.

Sherlock didn't look away after that, loving the almost dazed expression on John's face as Sherlock slipped a third finger into him. When John was open and ready, he pulled away from Sherlock and knelt forward, giving Sherlock room to get ready himself. John reached back and covered Sherlock's hand on his cock, and together the two of them moved into position and John sat back and slowly lowered his weight down over Sherlock, taking him in with a low cry. Sherlock was so hard it was almost too much, too tight, too hot, too good. His control was already fraying around the edges. When John started to move, Sherlock wanted to look at him, to watch him; but the sight of John riding him, back arched, head thrown back, was nearly enough to make him come. He closed his eyes and held on to John's hips, losing himself in the sound of their bodies meeting, of John's breathless groans mingling with his own, and finally of the sweet-hot friction spilling out from his hips through his entire nervous system.

He heard when John started stroking himself and opened his eyes. John's head was hanging forward now, eyes closed and mouth open as he thrust into his fist. "Oh fuck," Sherlock said, and John's eyes snapped open and met his. "Close?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded, rocking faster against Sherlock's hips. Sherlock reached up and stroked down John's stomach, feeling the muscles working, then brushed his hand over John's and murmured, "Come for me."

A few moments later, he did, spurting across Sherlock's chest and panting out nonsense syllables that tried to turn into words. Sherlock stopped moving, but John shook his head fiercely, still rocking Sherlock in and out of his arse. Sherlock could feel him squeezing and fluttering around him and closed his eyes again with a moan.

When he came, it was like the top of his head was on fire, slowly burning down through the rest of his body, and John's cries were nearly as breathless as his own. Sherlock dragged John down to him and kissed him, an open-mouthed sharing of breath and lips and tongue. They were sweaty and slippery where their skin met, and Sherlock thought that nothing was worth the possibility of losing this again, nothing gave him a good enough high to risk it.

John slid over to his side, curling against Sherlock with a sigh. Sherlock kissed him and rolled out of the bed. In the bathroom, he cleaned himself up and wet a flannel to take back to John. The vial. He remembered the vial still hidden in the toilet and felt the shame trying to come back. He closed the door and reached under the toilet lid. The vial was still in its same place, and Sherlock took it out. He looked at it for a moment, figured out the street value, and shook his head. He uncapped it and dumped the white powder down into the toilet. The vial went into the trash. He flushed, washed his hands, and went back to where John was waiting for him.

* * *

Harry had somehow managed to wrangle a few new dates into the schedule, to take advantage of some of the publicity Sherlock had gotten. They started in Memphis, the first show they'd had to cancel when Irene was hurt. John had already planned to go over the entire rigging system with Molly before the show, even though logic said that with no Jim Moriarty to sabotage things, everything should be fine. Moriarty was still in jail in San Jose, likely to remain there until the trial date. There was no decision yet if either he or Sherlock would have to testify—that was a problem to worry about later. For now, there were a dozen things that needed doing.

"John? I need some help out here," called Sally from the lobby. He jogged up the aisle, passing Anderson who was carting equipment towards the stage.

"Why didn't you use the stage door?" John said as he passed.

"There's a truck out there blocking it," Anderson said, hoisting the amp with both hands. "Can you do something about that, please?"

John grinned. "Sure, mate. Let me see what Sally needs first."

Sally, it turned out, needed more space—again. As John was going to take care of that, he got a text from Sherlock: _**The tea in the green room is worse than usual. Anything you can do?**_

It was mad, absolutely mad, and John was having the time of his life. He knocked on the manager's door before poking his head in. "'Hi, it's John, listen, I'm afraid we've got a couple of small problems but I bet you're the man who can sort it out for me..."

Hours later, John was sitting perched in his usual spot in the booth, waiting for the show to start. The openers had been barely mediocre, and the crowd was restless. Greg glanced over at him. "Still have that gun on you?"

John grinned. "Mycroft didn't approve it this time, so no. Sherlock's going to have to win them over the old fashioned way."

"God help us," Greg said, and Molly laughed.

"I have faith in him," John said. It hadn't taken much to get Sherlock to confess to him about the anxiety after the BBC interview, but Sherlock had seemed fine all afternoon, better than fine during soundcheck. John had pulled him aside when they'd arrived at the theatre. "Listen," he'd said. "Nothing is going to happen to you, not while I'm here, and not as long as you tell me when something's going on. I won't let it. Not again."

Sherlock had kissed him and smiled. "I know," he'd said.

Now, waiting in the dark, John wasn't nervous, exactly, not really. As the clapping grew louder, the announcer finally came over the PA and introduced Sherlock. Molly threw the lights up with a blinding flash, and there he was, centre stage with his arms outstretched and head thrown back, drinking in the sudden screams in the audience.

Sherlock crossed to his instruments with his usual on-stage strut, and John smiled and sat back to listen. Sherlock was back on stage and John had helped get him there, and there was nowhere else in the world that John would rather be.


End file.
